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BONNE-MARIE. 


A Tale of Nomandy and Paris. 


BY HENRY GREVILLE. ^ 

AUTHOR OF “SAVfiLl’S EXPIATION,” “ PHILOMENE'S MARRIAGES,”'’ 

“marrying off a daughter,” “gabrielle,” “a friend,” 
“DOSIA,” “pretty little countess ZINA,” “SONIA.” 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 
BY MARY NEAL SHERWOOD. 

I 


“ Bonne-Marie” Henry Griville’ s last work, will no doubt create a sensation, suck 
is its freshness , beauty, and delicacy. It is the story of a young girl, the daughter of 
a smuggler in Nortnandy, on the coast of France. Having been educated in a Con- 
vent, at Cherbourg, she returns from school where her father had placed her, and 
struggles in spite of her discontent to do her duty in her humble home. She turns d 
deaf ear to a lover’s pleading, and when her father is killed in a fray with the 
Coast-Guard, she leaves her home and goes to Paris to seek her fortune. The tale of 
her struggles with poverty, of her debut as a singer in one of the celebrated Caf6s — 
where, after a great success, she loses her heart to an artist, is simply, poxverfully 
and most pathetically told. What happens after we must leave the readers of this 
charming volume to discover for themselves, all of which is beautifully sketched, and 
the story from beginning to end is pure, fresh and breezy. Mrs. Sherwood’s English 
in this translation is beyond all praise — it flows freely on from beginning to end. 


il j"^ o 

PHILADELPHIA; \ > 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; ' 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


18 1 ?-. 


I 








A 


\ 




copyright; 

1879. 


q <011 r* 



HEIffRT GREVIEEE’S CEEEBRATED NOVEES. 

Bonne-Marie. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry Gr6ville, author of 
“ Dosia,” “ Saveli’s Expiation,” “ Sonia,” etc. Translate by Mary Neal ^herwood. 
“Bonne-Marie” is a charming story, the scenes of which are laid in Normandy and 
Paris. It will no doubt create a sensation, such is its freshness, beauty, and delicacy. 

Philomene’s Marriages. From the French of “ies Mariages de Philomene." 
By Henry Gr6ville, author of ‘‘ Dosia,” ” Saveli’s Expiation,” “ Gabrielle,” etc. 

The American edition of “PniLOMiNE’s Marriages,” contains a Preface written by 
Henry Greville, addressed to her American Readers, which is not in the French edition. 
Translated in Paris, from Henry Greville' s manuscript, by Miss Helen Stanley. 

Pretty Eittle Conntess Zina. By Henry Greville, author of “Dosia,” 

“ Saveli’s Expiation,” “A Friend,” etc. Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood. 

Zina, the Countess, bears a certain resemblance to Dosia — that bewitching creature — in 
her dainty wilfulness, while the ward and cousin, Vassalissa, is an entire new creation. 

Dosia. A Russian Story. Hy Benry author of “ Bonne-Marie,” Saveli’s 

Expiation,” “ Philom&ne’s Marriages,” “ Marrying Off a Daughter,” “ Sonia,” etc. 

“ Dosia ” has been crowned by the French Academy as the Prize Novel of the year. 
It is a charming story of Russian society, and is crisp, fresh and pure; while its fascina- 
tion is powerful and legitimate. It is written with a rare grace of style, is brilliant, 
pleasing and attractive. “ Dosia” is an exquisite creation, and is pure and fresh as a rose. 

Marrying Off a Dangliter. By Henry GreiuVie, author of “Dosia,” “Saveli’s 
Expiation,” “ Gabrielle,” “ A Friend,” etc. Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood. 
“Marrying Off a Daughter” is gay, sparkling, and per\-aded by a delicious tone of 
quiet humor, while the individuality of the characters is very marked. Suffice it to 
say, that “Marrying Off a Daughter” will be read and enjoyed by thousands. 

A Friend ; or, E’ Ami. A Story of Every-Day Life. By Henry Gr4ville, author 
of “ Sonia,” and “ Saveli’s Expiation.” Translated in Paris by Miss Helen Stanley. 
The story of “A Friend ” is one of every-day life in Paris at the present day, and 
shows Henry Gr6ville’s great talent and peculiar skill in the analysis of character. This 
tender and touching picture of French home-life will touch many hearts, as it shows how 
the love of a true and good W'oman will meet with its reward and triumph at last. 

Sonia. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “Saveli’s Expiation,” 
“ Marrying Off a Daughter,” “ Gabrielle,” etc. Translated by Maip Neal Sherwood. 

“ Sonia” is charming and refined, and is a pow^erful, graceful, domestic storj', display- 
ing the author’s imaginative style and play of fancy, and is charmingly and most beauti- 
fully told — giving one a very distinct idea of every-day home life in Russia. 

Saveli’s Expiation. By Henry Griville. A dramatic and powerful novel, and 
a pure love story. Translated from the French, by Mary Neal Shemvood. 

“ SavIili’s Expiation ” is one of the most dramatic and most powerful novels ever pub- 
lished, and although the character on which the plot rests is strongly drawn, it is not 
overdrawn, but is true to the times and situation. Powerful as it is, it is free from 
exaggeration, while a pathetic love story is presented for relief. 

Gabrielle; or. The House of Maureze. Ti-anslatrd from the French of 
Henry GrMlle, who is the most popular writer in Europe at the present time. 

“Gabrielle; or. The House of MaurIize,” is a very thrilling and touching story, 
most skilfully told, and follows the life of the girl whose title it bears. 


A 


CONTENTS. 

t-f-* 

Chapter. Page 

I. A FISH SUPPER 21 

n. THE SMUGGLER 36 

HI. DREAMS 40 

IV. GOING TO MARKET 46 

V. THE NIGHT AFTER 51 

YI. BEFORE DAWN 58 

Vn. DEPARTURE 61 

Vni. ARRIVAL IN PARIS 65 

IX. MADEMOISELLE BESLIN 68 

X. CLOTILDE 76 

XI. A NEW IDEA 84 

XTT . SIGNING THE CONTRACT 92 

Xin. HER FIRST APPEARANCE 103 

108 
113 


XIV. LUCIANE . . 
XV. HE comes! 


( 19 ) 


20 CONTENTS. 

Chapter. Page 

XVI. THE PAINTER 117 

XVn. THE PORTRAIT 123 

XVin. THE STUDIO 133 

XIX. HOW PICTURES ARE MADE 136 

XX. A NEW ASPIRANT 144 

XXI. WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS 153 

XXII. QUARRELS AND INSULTS 159 

xxin. HOPES 167 

XXIV. A SURPRISE 177 

XXV. luciane’s letter 184 

XXVI. THE RETURN 188 

xxvn. HOME AGAIN 194 

xxvm. AT LAST 200 




BONNE-MAEIE. 



BY HENEY GK^VILLE. 


AUTHOR OF 

“ PHILOMENE’S marriages,” “ PRETTY UITTLE COUNTESS ZINA,” 

“dournof,” “dosia,” “marrying off a daughter,” 

“ SAVELI’S expiation,” “ A FRIEND,” “ SONIA,” 

“gabrielle; or, the house of maureze.” 


CHAPTER L 


A FISH SUPPER. 


HOSE were happy days ! ” sighed the old smug- 



I gler as he swallowed his cider and set his glass 
noisily down upon the table, “and we had many a 
narrow escape ! ” 

“ One would suppose you were sorry they were 
over ! ” said the Coast-Guard, with a laugh. 

He knew very well if Beslin were once started on 
the narration of his former exploits, that he would not 
quickly stop, and that he himself might hope for an 
invitation to supper, in order to hear the conclusion of 
the tale. But to tell the truth it was not so much the 
supper which the Coast-Guard found so tempting, as 
the hope of catching a glimpse of that rare apparition, 


22 


A FISH SUPPER. 


Mademoiselle Bonne-Marie, who made her appearance 
at meals. 

“ Of course I am sorry ! said the hardened sinner, 
with an angry thump on the table. “ That was living I 
Everything was crowded into those days ! The dangers 
of the sea — the danger of fire-arms always ready to 
send a ball through us — the danger of breaking one’s 
neck among the rocks with fifty kilograms of smuggled 
tobacco on one’s back. There was some excitement in 
such things. And, now here I am stranded like an old 
boat, unfit for service, and spending my time looking 
out of the window to see what sort of weather it is.” 

“Do you know what you ought to do. Father 
Beslin?” insinuated the Coast-Guard, retreating a little 
from his dangerous proximity to the old man as he 
spoke : “You ought to enter our service, and you would 
be the most useful man among us ” 

“ What the devil do you mean ! ” exclaimed the old 
smuggler, brandishing his fist under the nose of his 
companion, who hastily drew back still further. “ If 
you were not the good fellow I know you to be, you 
should pay dearly for this very poor joke ! Do you 
think I would assist you in catching the fellows who 
are new to the business in which for forty years I was 
the cleverest of all my companions ! Do you think I 
would do such a thing ? No, you don’t. But I will tell a 
fft^ things you don’t know, clever as you think yourself. 
I could tell you of places where, this very day, tons of 
tobacco are hidden. You pass by it, but your nostrils 


A FISH SUPPER. 


23 


are not keen enough to track it. Here, this is sinnggiecl 
tobacco, (and Beslin pushed an earthen jarfull toward 
him) I never smoke any other, as you know very well, 
and yet you have the audacity to ask me to betray the 
good fellows who bring it to me ! ” 

The Coast-Guard drew his pipe from his pocket and 
began to fill it, without seeming to care in the least 
that the tobacco he was using had defrauded the 
revenue. 

“ I was only jesting. Father Beslin,” he said. “ And 
you know where stores are hidden, do you ? Tell me 
a little about it, — that you can do and not harm any 
one, you know.” 

“ Tell you ? no, not much ! ” said the old Normand 
with a sagacious air, “but I will tell you a story 
instead,” he continued, with a knowing wink : “ One 

day we had landed at the Nez-de-Jobourg a full load of 
laces, and English tobacco like that you are smoking, 
only better. As the night had been stormy, you 
Coast-Guards as you call yourselves — but spies as we 
call you — had allowed us to run in our cargo without 
interference, and the tobacco lay high and dry among 
the rocks, sheltered from wind and wave. But in the 
morning the weather was glorious, and all the people 
poured out of their houses, just as the slugs come out 
when it rains, only it is just the contrary, you under- 
stand ! 

“ The next day was Sunday, and I went down with 
a cart to the shore, but it was necessary to pass a 
revenue station, which no longer exists.” 


24 


A FISH SUPPER. 


Then the old smuggler stopped, and laughed heartily. 

“What amuses you?” asked his companion, who 
wished to avail himself of all the information possessed 
by the old man. 

“ I laugh when I think that one of your captains 
persuaded the government that this station was unne- 
cessary, and had better be removed inland. And why ? 
— “Because he had a house at Herqueville, which 
belonged to his wife, and he wanted to let it as lodg- 
ings for his men, and now the fellows walk comfortably 
about all day long, with their hands in their pockets, 
and nothing to do ! Oh ! your captain was a clever 
fellow. We have drank many a bottle to his good 
health, on the day when he had his house-warming at 
the new station ! ” 

The Coast-Guard bit his lips, while Beslin roared 
with laughter. 

“Well, to go back to my story,” continued the 
smuggler when he had laughed enough, “I hid my 
cart among the rocks, and then I went on a little to see 
what was going on. 

“ I found they had put a bench in front of the station, 
and all the men were warming themselves in the sun 
like so many lizards. I was rather puzzled as to what 
I should do next, when I saw a woman coming down 
the road, with a rosary in her hand. I went to meet 
the woman. It was just at that time quite the fashion 
to go on a pilgrimage to the Bienlieureux Thomas, at 
Biville, a spring which cures all sorts of diseases — it 


A FISH SUPPER. 


25 


may not now, but it did at that time — and it seems 
to me I have heard that the devotees have fallen off, 
considerably, lately. 

“At that time, too, girls went there in search of 
husbands. They did not say so, but all the same that 
was why they performed the pilgrimage, and went off 
to Bienheureux Thomas^ fasting. I saw at once that 
this good woman was on her way to Biville, for she was 
newly dressed, and as I told you, held a rosary in her 
hands. But I did not think she was after a husband, 
for she was nearly sixty years old. 

“‘You are performing a pilgrimage, Madame?’ I 
said to her as I got near her. 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ she answered, politely. 

“ ‘ Is it far to Biville ? ’ 

“ ‘ Indeed it is,’ said the good woman, with a sigh, 
as she looked down at her shoes already white with 
dust. 

“ ‘ If you choose,’ I said, ‘ I can give you a lift, for I 
have a stout cart over there. There are some fagots 
in it to be sure, but they can be arranged so that they 
won’t trouble you, I think. I am going to La Grande 
Valine, behind Vauville.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said my new friend, ‘ it was certainly fiien- 
heureux Thomas who sent you my way ; I will say a 
prayer or two for you ! ’ 

“ ‘ Very well ! ’ I said, ‘ come along with me and get 
into my cart.’ 

“ In five minutes more we were seated side by side. 


26 


A FISH SUPPER. 


the woman telling her beads and I driving my little 
mare. Up to this time the men at the station had not 
caught a glimpse of us; but I was sure the very 
moment they recognized me, they would search the 
cart, and then all would be lost of course. As we 
came to the turn of the road I said to my compan- 
ion : 

“ ‘ I see my brother in the meadow, up there, and I 
want to tell him not to wait dinner for me. But you 
can drive on, and I will overtake you by making a 
short cut, which will bring me out further down the 
road. Keep straight on and don’t be afraid, the mare is 
as mild as a sucking dove.’ 

“So then I jumped out, and the woman drove the 
mare quietly alone. When the Coast-Guard saw this 
venerable looking female — with her rosary on her arm 
— pass them without showing the smallest haste or 
anxiety, they, of course, did not trouble themselves 
about her. She went on until she got to Vauville, 
where I joined her, and jumping into the cart I whipped 
up my beast and we flew like the wind. 

“ ‘My dear good man ! ’ she cried, ‘please don’t drive 
so fast, your fagots are killing me.’ 

“ But there was no use in her complaining ; I did not 
draw in my mare nor did I even answer her. When 
we reached the brook in La Grande Vallee, I drew up 
hastily, and helped her out politely. 

“‘I am very much obliged to you,’ she said, 
‘although your fagots were pretty sharp.’ 


A FISH SUPPER. 27 

“ ‘ The fagots were not the only things in the wagon 
that are sharp,’ I answered. 

“ And I spoke the truth, for I had been sharp enough 
to make by that trip about five hundred francs.” 

“That was a very bright idea. Father Beslin,” re- 
plied the Coast-Guard, after a brief period devoted to 
a determination that he himself would never allow a 
cart loaded with brush-wood to pass him unsearched ; 
“and what did you do with all that money? ” 

“ Ask Bonne-Marie ! Her education has cost me 
the very eyes out of my head; but now she is a 
real young lady. She has been educated in the very 
best school, at Cherbourg, and she has her diploma I 
Yes, Mademoiselle Beslin is a lady, I am happy to 
say.” 

And the old smuggler rubbed his hands with an air 
of intense satisfaction. 

“ The fact is. Father Beslin,” said the Coast-Guard, 
as he twisted his moustache, “ the fact is. Mademoiselle 
Bonne-Marie is a young person who is endowed with 
every possible perfection — she will be the ornament of 
her sex, and more especially of her husband. If she 
should be inclined to marry a Coast-Guard officer, I 
think I may say that I am sure of my promotion, 
and ” 

“ It is not to me that you must say these things,” 
interrupted Beslin, with a cunning air; “I am not a 
young lady, you know. Monsieur Chamulot.” 

“Do you mean then,” cried Chamulot, joyously, 


28 


A FISH SUPPER. 


that you will make no objection and give your con- 
sent?” 

“I give no consent w^hatever, sir; it is for my 
daughter to decide. She is quite capable of managing 
all her affairs, and I have sworn that I would not inter- 
fere with, — cross, — or even advise her. Go to the 
young lady herself ! ” 

Chamulot was not encouraged enough to be enthusi- 
astic, and he took refuge in his pipe and his smuggled 
tobacco. 

The two men sat for some time in silence, smoking 
in front of each other. The room was large but low, 
and lighted by one window, as is usual in the houses of 
the peasantry in the Hague ; the thick walls were of 
white plaster, and held innumerable cupboards with 
oak doors. The deep window had a low bench which 
continued around the room, and a heavy table nearly 
filled the remaining space. 

It was on this bench that the Coast-Guard sat, while 
Father Beslin occupied a very old arm-chair, whose 
straw bottom was replaced by a board and a feather 
pillow, very much flattened by long usage. 

The window looked out upon the sea, and on the 
little harbor of Omonville ; the sun was sinking behind 
the hills, the tops of which still glowed with its rays. 
The small fort stood out against the blue sky, not far 
away, and in the distance, across the deep blue sea the 
sharply indented coast was seen — the coast that is so 
picturesque all the way to Cherbourg. 


A FISH SUPPER. 


29 


“You are very comfortable here,” said Chamulot, 
looking out of the closed window. 

“ Yes, we are comfortable,” answered his host, “ but 
we have no luxuries about us. This bench and this 
table, with that bed in the alcove with its red calico 
curtains, are about all we have.” 

Beslin was not far wrong. A low chair in a shel- 
tered corner by the fire was Bonne-Marie’s usual seat 
when she was preparing the meals. A few cooking 
utensils hanging on nails by the side of the chimney, 
attracted the eye by their cleanly glittbr. The soup 
was simmering, suspended from a crane over the wood 
fire. All was simple, but as the Coast-Guard had said, 
all was comfortable in this peasant home. 

“Luxuries do not make happiness,” replied Chamu- 
lot, philosophically. 

“ That is quite true, and you ought to know, for you 
are not rich either ! ” answered the Smuggler, with 
quiet malice. 

“ Who told you so ? ” Chamulot answered with some 
irritation. 

“ Who told me so ? Why, no one, of course. It does 
not need any one to tell me that you would spend your 
life at the Coast-Guard stations if you could help it.” 

“It is a very respectable service, nevertheless,” re- 
plied Chamulot. 

“ I dare say, and so is a fire company,” murmured 
Beslin, without taking his pipe from his mouth. 

Chamulot was trying to find some withering reply to 


30 


A FISH SUPPER. 


this remark, when the door opened ; a ray of the level 
sunlight poured in, and with it came a visitor. 

This was a man of about thirty, dressed in a cloth 
jacket and full breeches. He pulled off his felt hat 
and then put it on again ; he did not enter the room, 
but stood on the threshhold with a basket in his hand 
and a heavy net on his shoulder, and apparently waited 
for an invitation. 

“Ah! is that you, Belavoine?” said the old man, 
shading his eyes with his hand from the sunshine. 

“Yes, it is I. I came to see if you would kindly 
accept a few fish.” 

“Ask Bonne-Marie, my boy, I have no doubt she 
will, and give you a hearty ‘thank you,’ besides — 
Hallo I Bonne-Marie, come here I ” 

At this shout, a clear, sweet voice from above 
answered “ yes, in one moment I ” 

And steps on the wooden stairs presently, announced 
the approach of the young girl. 

“ Come in ! ” said Beslin to the new comer. 

“ I will wait a moment if you please,” was the reply. 

Bonne-Marie now appeared. 

She was a blonde with the softest blue eyes imagina- 
ble, but just at this moment they were bright with 
mischief. A mass of fair hair was confined by a white 
cap, and delicately penciled brows and long sweeping 
lashes added to the perfection of her charming face. 
Had she been ugly, the sweetness of her expression 
would have made you forget the fact — but she was 


A FISH SUPPER. 


31 


very pretty and the young people of Omonville knew 
this very well. 

“ Here is Belavoine, who has brought you some fish,” 
said Father Beslin to his daughter, while she was ad- 
dressing his guests. 

“Will you accept them. Mademoiselle Bonne- 
Marie?” said the fisherman Avith some little hesita- 
tion, “ I picked out a few fine fish with the hope ” 

He pulled away the seaweed which covered his 
basket and the sun fell full on a dozen magnificent fish 
with white pearly bellies and glittering, prismatic backs. 

“You are crazy, Jean Baptiste,” said Bonne-Marie 
in her musical voice, without one vestige of the nasal 
twang common to that part of the country. “ What 
on earth can we do with all those ? ” 

“ Eat them I trust. Mademoiselle — for if you Avill 
not have them, I shall toss them back to the sea. In 
fact, I said just those very words to myself when I 
caught them.” 

“Very well then, Jean Baptiste, do not throw them 
back into the sea, but stay here and help us eat them. 
Here is a friend from the Coast-Guard station who will 
do the same,” said the smuggler with a laugh. 

Belavoine darted at Chamulot a glance which was 
by no means very amiable, but Bonne-Marie had hold 
of the basket and was drawing it toward her, and him 
with it. He yielded to the movement and the door 
closed behind her. He was in the room at last. He 
threw down his net in the corner and said in a low 
voice to his host : 


32 


A FISH SUPPER. 


“ Thank you for that good turn, Father Beslin.” ' 

The fire soon flamed high in the chimney. The soup 
was strained and covered, and set among the ashes to 
keep hot ; the classic tripod replaced it, and the supper 
was well started. 

While Bonne-Marie went and came, moving rapidly 
but noiselessly, and laying the table, Jean Baptiste 
prepared the fish in the wavering fire light. The girl 
turned hastily and stood on tiptoe to reach some utensil 
that hung high up; at that moment he snatched the 
corner of her apron and kissed it. The supplicating 
eyes he fixed upon her were more eloquent than words. 
No one noticed these two, or could hear either of them 
speak, for the old smuggler was still teasing the Coast- 
Guard, and going off at intervals into explosions of 
laughter — the girl drew away her apron and said 
firmly but by no means angrily ; 

“No, Jean Baptiste — no — I have only the same 
answer to make to-day that I have made before.” 

“And why not?” murmured the fisherman, trying 
to soften the girl’s obdurate heart with a loving, sub- 
missive smile. 

“ Because I do not love you enough to be your wife.” 

“ What can I do to make you love me ? ” asked Jean 
Baptiste, trembling all over with eagerness. “ How caii 
a man make you love him? ” 

“I could love no man who was not my superior!” 
answered Bonne-Marie with unconscious cruelty. 

“It is true,” murmured the poor fellow bitterly, 


A FIS IT SUPPER. 


33 


“I am only a poor fisherman and you are a young 
lady.” 

“ Oh ! it is not that,” replied Bonne-Marie eagerly ; 
“ you have misunderstood me.” 

“ And why is it then ? ” 

“ I will tell you another time — I like you too much 
to expose you to ridicule,” she added gayly — “and 
they are looking at us.” 

She flew to the other end of the room and Jean 
Baptiste returned sadly to his fish. 

“ Her superior 1 ” he said to himself. “ Her superior ! 
And yet how happy any one would be in loving her as 
she desires. — Perhaps she will find this superior in this 
Coast-Guard, while I — ” 

He cast a furious look at the man of whom he was 
so frightfully jealous. — But this jealousy was by no 
means the work of the young girl who had done all in 
her power to discourage Chamulot, who however, was 
so strongly intrenched in his armor of self-conceit 
that he was not easily turned aside from his object — 
absolute and intolerable rudeness can alone open the 
eyes of such people. 

The party was soon gathered around the supper-table, 
and thanks to Father Beslin’s caustic wit, of which 
Chamulot was the victim, the merriment was incessant. 
Chamulot was by no means dull or foolish, and his 
repartees were often as amusing as Beslin’s attacks. 

The old man was not restrained, however, by any fear 

2 


34 


A FISH SUPPER. 


of wounding the pride or the feelings of his guests, and 
his remarks were excessively rude sometimes. 

Belavoine was sincerely delighted at each and every 
attack upon his rival — besides, he himself was in luck 
that night, and carried off the honors of war, as the 
supper was of his providing and Bonne-Marie sat close 
at his side — so close that her dress and even her arm 
touched him from time to time. The pleasure of see- 
ing her so pretty and so fresh, soothed for the moment 
the pain caused by her rejection. 

After supper there was coffee, and this coffee was 
good and strong, and had a dash of liquor in it. 

After placing a bottle of brandy on the table, Bonne- 
Marie retired softly, without saying good-night to any 
one, and the two men proceeded to indulge in strong 
libations. Chamulot was the first to feel his legs 
unmanageable. 

Belavoine had drank less; not that he was more 
sober as a general rule than the men about him — in a 
country where a man is more praised than blamed 
for drinking deeply — but his eyes were on his rival, 
and he hoped to catch him committing some egre- 
gious folly, at which he could have a chance to laugh. 

Chamulot after a while began to talk loud and fast, 
and Beslin was not behindhand — but after a long 
chapter of reminiscences they both grew weary and 
the company separated. 

As he accompanied his guests to the door, Beslin, 


A FISH SUPPER. 


35 


whose head was steady in spite of some intemperances 
of his tongue, put a hand on the shoulders of each. 

“ All this is very well, my boys,” he said, “ but I 
tell you honestly if once I see my way clear to do a 
little business in smuggling, I shall try it again ! I shall 
try it again I ” 

“ And I will help you, Beslin — I give you my word 
on that score now,” answered Belavoine, with a glance 
of defiance at the Coast-Guard. 

“You will help me! all right, and why shouldn’t 
you ? your father did many a time I ” 

“ And I — I should be very sorry, of course,” said 
Chamulot, with a profound bow, — if I were obliged 
to shoot you down with my gun — but the Law before 
all else you know.” 

“ To be sure ! the Law before all I That is it, my 
boy. And now to bed with you both — for I think 
each of you sees double.” 


36 


THE SMUGGLER. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE SMUGGLER. 

rjHHE Coast-Guard departed with a most uncertain 
X step and caught at several posts as he went down 
the road, while Jean Baptiste marched steadily along 
toward his distant dwelling. Before going in he looked 
at his boat, safely drawn up on the shore, spread his net 
out on the rocks to dry, and then shutting the door 
behind him, went to bed without a light. 

“Yes, my boys,” muttered old Beslin, “ yes, you may 
hang around here as much as you please, but neither of 
you will have my daughter — Mademoiselle Beslin is a 
proud little piece ; she has been well brought up, and 
neither of you are worthy of a girl of her beauty and 
education. 

“ She never said so, to be sure — for she is no chat- 
terbox, but I know it all the same — but she is proud, 
whew! proud isn’t the word — she gets that from me. 
Her mother was above me in station, but she married 
me, nevertheless — and not for my money but for my 
good looks. — Why won’t somebody marry Bonne- 
Marie for her good looks? — her eyes are handsomer 
than mine ever were ! ” * 

Beslin went into the house, rubbing his hands cheer- 
was soon sound asleep in the great bed, shut 
in by the red calico curtains. 


THE SMUGGLER. 


37 


Beslin was in the habit of disappearing every after- 
noon at a certain time, and during the eighteen months 
since his daughter’s return she had learned to respect 
the mystery of his movements and never asked a ques- 
tion. In general, in places like La Hague, where old 
customs are still preserved, children continue to be 
respectful to their parents. The scenes of abandon- 
ment and brutality which are so often caused by a 
division of a small property or by the anticipation of it, 
are absolutely without example in the simple country, 
where the children are deferential to the wishes, and 
obedient to the commands of their parents. Bonne- 
Marie, although raised by education far above the 
intellectual and moral level of old Beslin, was neverthe- 
less a devoted and submissive daughter. Her hands, 
which had become white and delicate in her ten years 
of boarding-school life, did not now shrink from any 
domestic task; the smuggler’s home, so dreary and 
neglected during the absence of the daughter who had 
left immediately after her mother’s death, had regained 
the neat look which had once characterised it ; white 
curtains hung over the only two windows of the house 
— soap, sand and soda, had eradicated every spot, and 
the furniture shone like looking glasses. 

“ It was not for such work as this that I sent you to 
boarding-school,” grumbled Beslin sometimes, when 
coming in unexpectedly he would find his daughter 
busy with these things. 

“ I beg your pardon, my dear father,” answered 


38 


THE SMUGGLER. 


Bonne-Marie gayly, “ cleanliness and housekeeping 
were the first lessons taught me.” 

To this Beslin had no reply to make, but contented 
himself with admiring his daughter. 

“I have done,” he said the day that Bonne-Marie 
came back from school under the care of the good 
woman of the neighborhood who had been sent to 
Cherbourg for her, “ I have done — I shall do no more 
smuggling ! ” 

“ And how then will you live ? ” asked some of his 
associates. 

“ I have something put away,” he answered with a 
wink — “ and then too, a pretty girl like mine won’t be 
long in marrying, and my son-in-law can feed me.” 

This jest was the only reply that any one could extort 
from him, and yet Beslin, born ^ smuggler, as it were — 
for his father had been one before him — now appeared 
to have given up the illicit traffic. His imprudence 
was so great in regard to it, that one day when an 
employ^ of the Government asked him his profession 
before giving him a certain license for which he had 
applied, Beslin quietly answered with a wink ; 

“ Smuggler, sir, smuggler ! ” 

This jest proved a harmless one, as the employ^ who 
knew him well smiled and did not set down the illegal 
appellation, but substituted another. But people in 
Omonville and its vicinity asked each other seriously 
how on earth Beslin would live if he gave up smug- 
gling — and the word live was used in its broadest 


THE SMUGGLER. 


39 


sense, for his restless spirit demanded excitement and 
adventure as much as his body did his daily food. 

The house in which he lived was the sole property 
of which he was known to be possessed, and this house 
brought him in no income. 

Beslin, however, disappeared every day as we have 
said. “I am going to walk! ” he would regularly call 
out to his daughter, and soon his robust form would be 
seen on the shore, then he disappeared from view and 
no one took the trouble to see where he went. 


40 


DREAMS. 


CHAPTER III. 

DREAMS . 

ri^HE day after the fish supper, the old man departed 
X as usual. Bonne-Marie having put into the dain- 
tiest order the little room she occupied on the upper 
fioor of the house — and watered the two geraniums 
which stood on the window sill — cast a look at herself 
in the mirror which imparted to her pretty face a 
greenish tinge that was far from desirable, and then 
with her work-basket in her hand, went down into the 
garden, beliind the house. 

Bonne-Marie’s work was a piece of tapestry of 
the most glowing colors. What did she intend to 
do with this tapestry, which was so little in accord- 
ance with the home in which she lived, and with her 
daily life ? 

“ I shall use it when I am married,” she would say 
to the girls of her own age, who questioned her. 

The occasional hours which Bonne-Marie found it 
possible to snatch from the all-engrossing cares of the 
house were spent — thanks to this piece of canvas — 
in an enchanted dream. 

These brilliant wools brought back to her all that 
she had learned from the discreet romances she had 
read in her school, in regard to the life of the world and 


DREAMS. 


41 


society. Carriages like those she had seen driving 
rapidly through Cherbourg on the days of the races, 
appeared once more before her eyes. Again she saw 
the lovely toilettes worn by the fair Parisians at the 
Casino or the watering places, and the handsome men 
who came down in the trains of Saturday and Monday. 
Behind this dazzling phantasmagoria was hidden Paris 

— Paris, that city of the blest — and it was in Paris 
that Bonne-Marie longed to live. 

In Paris, she would live in a pretty little house like 
those of which there are many around Cherbourg — the 
homes of people in easy circumstances. She would 
have a carriage and horses, a hot-house and a garden 

— here Bonne-Marie cast a contemptuous glance at the 
poor little garden, planted with a few rustic flowers and 
many useful cabbages — she would have a wide avenue 
and a smooth gravel walk, shaded by magnificent trees, 
that would always be fresh and green, and ornamented 
by bronze statues, like a certain garden she had seen 
through the bars of a gate. 

Her husband would give her all these things, and 
many others besides. But where was this husband 
coming from ? He certainly would not be found in 
Omonville — there was no question about this. 

Bonne-Marie did not say this to herself however, 
and her reflections were a little vague on this especial 
point. Some fine day the husband would of course 
appear; it was in the nature of things; they would 
meet, possibly, on the shore, and he would admire her 


42 


DREAMS. 


at once. He would be struck with her distinguished 
beauty, and remain rooted to the ground ; she — much 
agitated — would slowly pursue her way, and then sud- 
denly turn round for one more look, and tliis look 
would decide the destiny of both ! 

This future husband might be a painter with his 
palette and brushes; he would pass their house just 
about sunset some night, and he would see her 
seated just as she was now, through the carefully 
trimmed hawthorn hedge, and would stop to look at 
her; she would raise her eyes, and this illustrious 
being — this pride and hope of France — would feel 
that his happiness was there in that modest garden, 
between a hundred-leaved rose and a lavender bush — 

“ Bonne-Marie ! ” said a voice behind the hedge. 
She started violently. Had her dream come to pass, at 

last ? She raised her eyes and saw the well known 

face of Jean Baptiste ! 

“What do you want?” she asked with a burning 
blush — a blush of shame, at the remembrance of the 
fancies in the enjoyment of which she had been inter- 
rupted ! It seemed to her that the fisherman must be 
able to read them. 

“ Bonne-Marie, tell me, why you will not love me ? ” 

Jean Baptiste was leaning with both elbows on the 
hawthorn hedge, which was so strong and firm that it 
hardly bent under his weight. He was looking at 
Mademoiselle Beslin with those plaintive, submissive 
eyes, so like those of a faithful dog. 


D K E A M S . 


43 


“Poor Jean!” she murmured softly — not yet quite 
awake to the real world about her — “I can not I but 
it is not my fault, nor is it yours.” 

“ But what would you have ? I am an honest fellow, 
I never did any harm to any one ; I am a fisherman, 
because I must be something, but if you prefer, I would 
go to town and go into trade. I could become a 
grocer, you know.” 

“No, no, not that!” answered Bonne-Maide quickly, 
“ not that ! ” 

“Not a grocer? Well, just as you please. If you 
say so, I am ready to sell all I own here and go to 
Paris. That is what you want. Mademoiselle Beslin, I 
have found that out — you would like to live in Paris 
— and I should like it too, I think.” 

“ What would you do in Paris, my poor dear Jean 
Baptiste,” said Bonne-Marie, as she folded her work 
slowly. 

“And you, what would you do there ? ” answered the 
fisherman. 

A faint smile flickered over the girl’s face. Little 
did it matter to her what she would do there. She 
would be rich and respected — was not that enough ? 

“No, Jean,” she said, gently, “neither at Paris or 
elsewhere, could I love you. Have I not said that I 
must look up to my husband — that he must be my 
master.” 

“ And that is easily done, I should say ! ” replied 
Jean Baptiste, angrily. “Your master, do you say? 
Perhaps you would like to be beaten ! ” 


44 


D R E A M S . 


Bonne-Marie’s gentle eyes flashed fire. 

“No! no!” she said, “no man will ever beat me. 
But we understand each other so little, my poor Jean, 
that it is no use for us to talk, and this is precisely 
why I cannot love you.” 

Unconsciously, she had fallen into the familiar thou, 
which in their class indicated not so much tenderness 
and affection, as the fact that they had grown up 
together. This familiarity delighted the young man, 
and his eyes sparkled with pleasure as he answered : 

“ Books, Bonne-Marie, have turned your head, and 
the day will come, when you will realize the worth of 
some things you now despise. People who are born in 
the country and have lived here, do not bear trans- 
planting. It is this earth which nourishes us, and we 
must not be ungrateful. You are not made for Paris, 
you are in no way fitted for it. This is the place for 
you, and where you ought to remain. You will see 
this for yourself, some day.” 

“We shall see !” repeated Bonne-Marie, lifting her 
head, haughtily. 

“ It is that fool of a Coast-Guard that has put these 
ideas into your head ! He is a fool and a traitor beside ! 
You prefer him, do you? He told you he could have 
a good place — be promoted — and take you away 
with him! He wishes to go to-morrow with you to 
Beaumont ” 

“ Who says so ? ” asked Bonne-Marie, angrily. 

“ He says so, himself.” 


DREAMS. 


45 


“Does he indeed? Well! I presume he can hardly 
go without my permission ” 

“ And you will not allow him, then, to go with 
you ? ” asked Jean Baptiste. 

She was silent for a moment, and then, in a tone of 
intense annoyance, she said : 

“I do not love you, Jean Baptiste, at least not with 
the love for which you ask ; but I do not v^ish to hurt 
your feelings or offend you in any way. No, not for 
all the Coast-Guards in the world, but when I say no, 
it is no. You can come if you choose.” 

“With you?” 

“ No, not with me. I shall go alone, because I do 
not intend to be your wife ; hut you can come after me 
and see for yourself how much love I have for this 
beautiful Coast-Guard in his green uniform ! ” 

Bonne-Marie rose, and turned toward the house. 

“Are you going away?” said the fisherman, sadly. 

“It is time to prepare supper. Good-night,” an- 
swered Bonne-Marie. 

She took several steps, and then stopped. 

“It is very unfortunate, dear Jean,” she said, “that 
you should have taken such foolish ideas into your 
head ; and if at any time any one should tell you that 
I allow myself to be courted by one of these men, you 
may just tell him, to his face, that it is false.” 

She entered the house, leaving Jean Baptiste both 
sad and happy — as a dog is sad and happy when his 
food is brought to him, but he is not unchained. 


46 


GOING TO MARKET. 


CHAPTER IV. 

GOING TO MARKET. 

T he sun was just coming up above the high hills 
which environed the pretty valley of Omonville 
— the pastures where the tall, crisp grass was green 
and fresh from early spring until late autumn were 
lined with the shadows of the tall trees on the summit 
of the hill — huge rocks of a soft gray, with patches of 
emerald-green moss, and yellow and brown lichens 
sparkled with the dew that lay fresh upon them — 
masses of heather, at this season of a sombre green, and 
in autumn of a rich glowing purple, lay dark among 
the furze, which in that blessed country clothes as with 
a mantle of gold the most arid tracts of land. 

A light, yellow mist shrouded the poplars, whose 
leaves were just bursting forth, while the willows had 
been in greater haste, and were already clothed in their 
light green foliage. The hawthorn hedges were a mass 
of white blossoms — like a bridal bouquet — and wound 
along the highroad and up the hillside in every direc- 
tion, they being the boundary lines of the fields and 
meadows. 

At the end of the valley rose an old mill, built of 
gray stone, which seemed to block up the road entirely, 
and to shut out this charming fertile valley — scooped 


GOING TO MARKET. 47 

out, as it were, between two hills — from any inter- 
course with the outer world. 

It was midway in this valley that we again catch a 
glimpse of Bonne-Marie — in a short petticoat, made of 
a striped woolen stuff woven in the village, and wear- 
ing one of those little fluted caps which are so becoming 
to the girls of this part of the country. 

Bonne-Marie seemed to have forgotten her worldly 
aspirations, and was a mere peasant going to the 
market at Beaumont, to buy her provisions for the 
week. 

On the other side of the valley Jean Baptiste was 
quietly loitering along, sheltered by the hedge. In the 
intense quiet of the country, at the especial hour of 
which we write, the slightest noise is heard at a great 
distance; a branch cracking attracted Marie’s atten- 
tion. She looked around and saw Jean Baptiste 
watching her, through a gap in the hedge. 

She waved her hand, and smiled with a glance of 
girlish mockery, and the young flsherman withdrew, 
hastily. 

At that moment a voice rang through the valley : 

“ Mademoiselle — ah I Mademoiselle ! ” 

Bonne-Marie turned a little — a very little, and be- 
held the Coast-Guard striding through the tall grass of 
the meadow, near the mill. 

In order to avoid the inquisitive eyes and the long 
tongues of the villagers, Chamulot had taken the short- 
est, or rather the most direct line. But the specious 


48 


GOING TO MARKET. 


aphorism which pronounces the most direct line to be 
also the shortest, had brought the Coast-Guard to con- 
siderable grief already. 

Whoever has attempted to walk through a meadow 
— near a mill — can form any idea of what his troubles 
had been ! 

The lovel}" green grass pleases the eye; one starts 
to cross it and presently he finds that the green and 
velvety surface conceals at least a foot of water. 

“ Mademoiselle — Ah ! Mademoiselle ! ” 

Bonne-Marie walked a trifle more slowly, but she 
did not turn around. She swung her empty basket 
lightly by her side, and enjoyed the peaceful scene 
about her. Chamulot fancied this conduct was the 
result of her girlish modesty and careful training. 
He struggled on to join her but the water was growing 
deeper and deeper. He took the most enormous strides, 
and all at once there was a heavy thud. 

Mademoiselle Beslin knew instantly what had hap- 
pened. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw her 
admirer struggling to his feet again ; but she knew that 
his troubles were not over, as each step would bring 
him nearer and nearer the brook, which was completely 
hidden by overhanging grass and mint. 

Bonne-Marie slackened her pace. The Coast-Guard 
made a superhuman effort, but his feet slipped from 
under him, and he fell on all fours into the perfidious 
brook, accompanied by a sound of splashing water, 
which was very delicious, and quite in harmony with 
the cool freshness of the scene. 


GOING TO MAKKET. 


49 


“ Mademoiselle ! — Ah ! Mademoiselle, wait for me ! ” 

This plaintive entreaty at last touched the young 
girl’s hard heart. She turned and looked at the piti- 
able figure before her with a calm, inquiring expression. 

He, with undaunted courage, had risen from his igno- 
minious position, and leaping the brook, at last reached 
her side. Bonne-Marie was sorely tempted to advise 
Chamulot to shake himself like a dog. 

“Can this be you. Monsieur Chamulot?” said the 
girl in a voice of light disdain. “ Where on earth have 
you been ? ” 

Jean Baptiste, as Bonne-Marie well knew, was at 
this very moment enjoying the scene. 

“ I came to find you — I thought you would ” 

Here the Coast-Guard, exhausted by his struggles, 
now stopped to breathe, and mopped his forehead with 
his handkerchief. 

“ You wished to go with me to Beaumont, perhaps,” 
answered the coquette pitilessly, “but it is not possible. 
Your dress. Monsieur Chamulot — your dress! Why 
on earth did you undertake to go through the meadows 
instead of going by the road like a Christian — How 
funny you look I” 

She could no longer restrain herself, but burst into 
rippling laughter, every sound of which gladdened 
the heart of Jean Baptiste, who in his turn shouted 
until the whole valley rang. 

Caught between these two fires the Coast-Guard 
turned first to one side and then to the other. 

3 


50 


GOING TO MAKKET. 


He was covered from head to foot with water and 
earth, and the two young people started off again in 
another paroxysm of mad hilarity. 

“ Good, very good ! ’’ muttered Chamulot, pale with 
rage — “ you shall pay me for this ! ” 

He turned away and took the same meadow path by 
which he had come, caring very little now, of course, 
whether he went knee deep into water, or not. After 
looking after him for a minute, Bonne-Marie shook her 
head, laughed a little more, and with a friendly nod to 
Jean Baptiste, started off at a rapid pace towards 
Beaumont, and soon disappeared around the hill. 




THE NIGHT AFTEK. 


51 


CHAPTER V. 

THE NIGHT AFTER. 

TT^HE evening of the same day Bonne-Marie came 
JL home from her long excursion fatigued and 
taciturn. Her morning gayety had all passed away, 
and as often happens with young girls after having 
laughed until the tears came — the tears now came 
without laughing. 

It was indeed hard for a spirit as ambitious as her 
own, to conquer her pride and go to market like any 
simple peasant lass ; after her recent dreams of luxury 
and wealth it seemed to her especially painful to return 
to her home on foot — bowed under the burden of a 
basket filled with provisions — accompanied by a group 
of the young girls of Omonville who were totally 
uneducated — almost uncivilized — in whose conversa- 
tion she could feel no interest, and by whom it was 
perfectly easy for her to see she was neither loved nor 
liked. 

It was then with a very full heart that Bonne-Marie 
ascended to her chamber after having said good night 
to her father, who kissed her with more than his wonted 
tenderness. The old smuggler had done his best to 
make his child happy, and if he had not succeeded 
what was there left for him to do ? 


52 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


“ Dear little girl,” said the old man to himself as he 
listened to his child’s footsteps on the uncarpeted 
stairs, “ you shall be happy in this world if I can man- 
age it ! ” 

He waited another hour, and listened to satisfy him- 
self fully that his daughter was asleep, then he took 
from a corner a stout oaken staff, without which he 
never went from the house, then going to his wardrobe 
he took out something that he hid in his pocket, extin- 
guished his lamp and went out softly. 

“ Now,” he said with his customary knowing laugh, 
“everybody is asleep and the moon alone — ” 

He interrupted himself, for all the world was not 
asleep ; lights glittered here and there in the windows 
of some of the houses, and a little further on was the 
Coast-Guard station, through the shutters of which 
came a ray from a shaded lamp. 

Beslin bowed mockingly towards this lamp. 

“ Perhaps you will find out some fine day, my boys,” 
he said aloud, “ that Father Beslin is not so old but 
that he can do some mischief yet ! ” 

He went to the left and along the shore, sheltered 
by the low stone walls which protected the low lying 
meadows from the encroaching tide walls which, 
however, were by no means high enough to prevent 
these same meadows from being flooded when the sea 
'ran very high under a stiff northerly breeze. His step 
resounded for a moment on the flat stones on which he 
trod, and then he stood still and listened. 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


63 


The regular ripple of the incoming tide, the dash of 
the waves against the rocks which were covered and 
left bare twice each day by the water, that was all he 
heard; no other sound save this monotonous beat of 
the pulse of the great, ocean, and the charge of the 
indefatigable waters against the rocks which stood firm 
against their assaults. 

Beslin walked on, but the noise of his boots on the 
shingle was so loud that he went down to the sand and 
entered the water ankle deep, following the shore 
through the white foam. The night was very dark ; a 
soft north-easterly breeze — so light on land that it 
scarcely lifted the leaves of the trees — drove the sea 
against the belt of reefs which protected La Hague 
better than the cannons of any forts could have done. 
Again and again did Beslin stop and listen, still no 
sound but the ripple and the dash. The old smuggler 
resumed his nocturnal walk. 

He reached a slight eminence, — an island almost — 
connected with the land by a narrow tongue of earth, 
nearly eaten away by the water, and often entirely sub- 
merged. On this spot were the ruins of an old Coast- 
Guard station — long since abandoned — the gulls and 
cormorants were now its only visitors, and these birds 
took refuge there on many a stormy night when the 
waves washed over the rocks which were their habitual 
homes. 

“ It was not a bad idea,” muttered the hardy adven- 
turer, “to hide our goods in the very spot that 


54 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


belonged to the government. They never would get 
the idea through their stupid brains ! ” 

He shrugged his shoulders as he thought of Chamu- 
lot. He then went around the abandoned station and 
knocked several sharp blows in quick succession on the 
stones. 

A head peered cautiously out, and then another. 

“ It is I ! ” he said, quite aloud, without the precaution 
of lowering his voice — “ come on my boys. The night 
is very dark, and you can keep close to the rocks, walk- 
ing through the water. Remember what the sailors 
say, that salt water never wets any one ! ” 

Setting the example himself, he lifted a bundle on his 
shoulders, and entered the water until it came as high 
as his waist, and then stole along behind the rocks with 
the greatest caution. Two men, more heavily burdened 
than he, followed him, closely. It was necessary to 
make a circuit of at least a half league, all the time 
beaten against by the rising tide. Every few minutes 
a hole presented itself which it was necessary to step 
over. Old Beslin had gone over this route over and 
over again; and without the smallest fear of being 
heard — as he trusted to his voice being covered by the 
roar of the sea — he gave his companions directions so 
precise, that they were really astonished. 

“ Have you eyes in your ankles then. Father 
Beslin ? ” asked one of his companions — a new comer 
in that district. 

They were resting, at the moment, behind a large 
rock, which prevented them from seeing the shore. 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


55 


“ Yes, my boy,” answered the old smuggler, as he 
eased the burden on his shoulders, and started again : 

“ I have eyes in my ankles and at the ends of my 
fingers also ! You see a man must know pretty well 
what he is about, before he undertakes to lead others.” 

They had now reached a spot where the high rocks 
ended, and low ones, covered with wet seaweed, took 
their place. They would now be obliged to cross the 
beach on their hands and knees, keeping as flat to the 
ground as possible, and try and reach the fields beyond. 

“Now look out I ” said Beslin, in a low voice, “this 
is the most dangerous place we have.” 

Just as he spoke and was about to leave the protect- 
ing shadow of the last high rock, an odd metallic sound 
was heard on the beach. 

“ The Coast-Guard,” said Beslin, between his teeth. 
“I felt sure that beast of a Chamulot had followed 
me ! ” 

“ Who goes there ! ” cried a voice not ten steps off. 

The three smugglers stood huddled together. The 
tide was still coming in, and the foam touched their 
lips. 

“ Who goes there ! ” repeated the Coast-Guard. 

“Father Beslin,” breathed, rather than whispered, 
one of the men, “ I am losing my foothold — the tide 
is too strong for me ! ” 

The guards were talking together, and they moved 
a few steps away. 

“ Are they going? ” said one of the smugglers. 


56 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


“ No,” answered Beslin, “ they are not going ; they 
intend to climb over that rock. You go back, and I 
will keep them here. After you have gone thirty or 
forty yards, cross the beach boldly, and strike into the 
fields. They will never think of looking for you 
there.” 

“But you. Father Beslin?” asked the others, with 
some anxiety. 

“ I ! Why I shall say that I am taking a walk for 
my health. They may believe me, or they may not, 
that is their own affair ! Go on, my children, and take 
care and keep the goods dry.” 

As the tide was still coming in there was not much 
time for hesitation. The two men reluctantly beat a 
retreat; keeping behind the rocks, and obeying the 
directions given them by their guide. 

The Coast-Guard were at a loss what to do. They 
had returned to the beach, and the quick, sharp sound 
of their guns rang against the pebbles. 

Beslin held his breath and his ground. Unfortu- 
nately, a wave rising a little higher than the others, 
swept off his hat, which stood out clearly on the white 
foam that broke on the beach. 

“ There is certainly some one there,” muttered one 
of the guard. 

“No,” answered Chamulot, “I do not think so, but 
we can easily ascertain.” 

Another foaming wave struck against the rock 
behind Beslin, and threw his figure out in strong relief 
against its whiteness. 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


57 


“ If there is no one,” replied the man, “ then it is a 
sea bird, for something moved. Look there ! ” 

Beslin drew back a little. 

“ Fife I ” cried Chamulot, not however without some 
repugnance. 

A flash of light, a quick report 

Beslin was thrown, by the next wave, almost at the 
feet of the man who had often sat at his table. 

The Coast-Guards turned their dark lanterns upon 
the body and recognized Beslin. A ball had gone 
through his forehead — a sigh and a shiver, and all was 
over. 


58 


BEFORE DAWN. 


CHAPTER VI. 


BEFORE DAWN 


E clock struck one just as the dreary procession ~ 



Jl reached Beslin’s door. The shot had aroused all 
the village. 

The fishermen had hurried down to the shore, and 
some among them had gone on to Beslin’s home to 
awaken Bonne-Marie ; but when they reached the door 
the heart of the boldest failed him. 

“I will call her, myself,” said Jean Baptiste, tremb- 
ling with grief and suspense. “ In the hour of trouble 
one turns to old friends ! ” 

He ran up the stairs and tapped at the young girl’s 
door — but the lover was lost in the tenderest pity — he 
felt all the compassion of a brother for a heart-broken 
sister. 

“ Your father has had an accident,” he said, as she 
opened her door, all in white. “ Come down, 
quickly.” 

She hurried on a skirt, and caught a shawl, without 
speaking one word. 

Jean Baptiste led her to the side of her father, where 
he lay with a sheet thrown over his face. Every head 
was uncovered, and the only light came from the 
lanterns. 


BEFORE DAWN. 


59 


“Is he dead?” she gasped. 

No one answered. 

She knelt at the side of the body ; but her light form 
swayed like a reed in the wind, and she fell back into 
the arms of Jean Baptiste, who laid her on her father’s 
bed. 

The good women of the neighborhood gathered 
around her, and she was soon restored to conscious- 
ness. 

“Who killed him?” she asked, some hours later, 
when the gray light of dawn paled the candles burning 
at the head of the bier. 

“ It was Chamulot,” said one of the women ; “ your 
father was smuggling.” 

“ Yes,” said Bonne-Marie faintly, closing her eyes as 
she spoke, “ he said he would be avenged ! ” 

Meanwhile, Chamulot was by no means as guilty as 
Bonne-Marie supposed. He had watched Beslin, and 
followed him with the hope and the expectation of 
taking him in the very act ; but he had not dreamed 
that a murder could take place. 

Unfortunately, however, he was pushed to extremity 
by the imperious law of his position, and had obeyed 
it not without the greatest reluctance and horror. 

The villagers and all the peasantry avoided him after 
this event, and would go out of their way to avoid 
him when they met him by chance. 

Chamulot found this so very disagreeable, that he 
asked and obtained a change ; and this he did with so 


60 


BEFORE DAWN. 


little delay, that when Bonne-Marie — according to the 
seyere provincial etiquette in regard to mourning — 
went to church for the first time, a fortnight after her 
father’s death, it was with the comforting assurance 
that she ran no risk of meeting the man whose very 
name turned her sick and faint. 


DEPARTURE. 


61 


CHAPTER VIL 

DEPARTURE. 

S IX weeks had elapsed since Beslin’s death. Spring 
was changing into Summer, and soon the fires of 
Saint Jean would be lighted in all the villages, under 
the wreaths of flowers suspended across the streets. 

Bonne-Marie had silently set her house in order for 
a long absence, and one day Omonville was surprised 
to learn that Mademoiselle Beslin was about to depart. 

‘‘Where is she going?” the gossips said, one to 
another. 

This question was not an easy one to answer, for 
since the great misfortune which had crushed her to 
the earth, Bonne-Marie had not exchanged ten words 
with a living soul except the Curd, who had visited her 
several times. 

Jean Baptiste walked to and fro past this house, 
looking at the windows over which hung those impene- 
trable white curtains. Never once had he ventured to 
knock at the door, so intense was the respect he felt for 
the orphan’s sorrow, and perhaps, also for the solitude 
of this defenceless and solitary young creature. 

One Wednesday evening, however, the door was 
opened to let in the light of the setting sun, and the 
young fisherman ventured to approach it. Bonne- 
Marie was unquestionably expecting him, for she 


62 


DEP AKTURE. 


showed no surprise when she saw him. She was stand- 
ing in the centre of the lower room, packing a small 
trunk that stood on the oak table. 

“Good evening, Bonne-Marie,” said Jean Baptiste, 
not crossing the threshold, but standing just outside 
the door. “ Is it true that you are going away ? ” 

“Good evening,” answered the girl in her sweet 
musical voice. 

Then after a moment’s silence, she said slowly : 

“Yes — I am — going away.” 

“ And where ? if I may ask.” 

She hesitated 

“To Cherbourg,” she answered, turning her face 
away ; but a rosy flush that spread over her cheek and 
throat told that it was not easy for her to tell a false- 
hood. The young man entered the house and stood on 
the other side of the table, looking at her. 

“You are not going to Cherbourg,” he said sadly, 
“ or, at all events, you are not going there only : you 
intend to go to Paris.” 

Bonne-Marie assented with a silent nod, and went 
on folding her linen and stuffing it into the trunk. 

“ Why are you going to Paris ? ” continued the flsh- 
erman in a gentle voice ; “ you might be very happy 
here. I would work for you, and you would be a little 
queen. You need not trouble yourself about anything 
but your embroidery and your flowers ” 

“ I can not stay here,” interrupted the young girl ; 
“ you know I do not like the country ; and now, after 
this last horror, it is simply killing me 1 Each of those 


DEPARTURE. 


63 


rocks — the roar of that sea — tells me the frightful 
tale over and over again, and I really cannot bear it I ” 

She was silent, and her fluttering hands were still 
for a moment, while two large tears splashed upon the 
black shawl she was folding. 

“So be it,” sighed Jean Baptiste. “But — you will 
come back ? ” 

Bonne-Marie looked vaguely out through the open 
door, through which came the gay sunshine. 

Thousands of luminous particles floated in the air 
and were swallowed up in the heavy folds of her black 
dress. The sun told a tale of hope and of life, and a 
sigh swelled her youthful and ambitious breast. 

“Perhaps!” she answered slowly and with a faint 
smile upon her parted lips. 

Jean Baptiste stood for a few moments in bitter 
silence. He was angry and he was wounded. He 
knew that he had no real right to be either. He hesi- 
tated and then going nearer to the girl, he looked her 
full in the face. 

“Listen! — ” he said, “you will come back — : not 
in a carriage, proud and happy, and with the gorgeous 
raiment of which you dream — no — you will return 
poor, sad, worn and weary, and possibly ill besides. 
You will find me here, waiting and watching for you, 
Bonne-Marie; you will perhaps be less proud and 
less confident than you are to-day, and I, Bonne-Marie, 
will be then just what I am now ! ” 

She looked at him with an air of defiance. His 
words had wounded her keenly. He saw this. 


64 


DEPARTURE. 


“ Yes,” he resumed, in the same cold tone, but with a 
gentle expression in his face, “ you are vexed with me, 
and yet, I have said only what I believe. You will 
return here because you will not know where else to 
go, when Paris becomes to you as u'ksome as Omonville 
is to-day, because ” 

He stopped, bit his lips, and determined to say no more. 
But in a moment he spoke again, with that resigned 
sweetness which lay at the foundation of his character. 

“I know not what other changes there may be, 
Bonne-Marie — but I — I shall never change ! ” 

Intense silence reigned in that low room, while the 
two stood apparently expecting some mute sign from 
the finger of Destiny. 

“When are you going?” the young man asked at 
last. 

“To-morrow morning,” replied Bonne-Marie, shut- 
ting the lid of her trunk. All her firmness returned 
to her with this simple act, the prelude of her new 
life, and she turned toward Jean Baptiste. 

“ Be happy ! ” she said to him. Farewell ! ” 

“ Farewell ! ” he repeated. “ Will you allow me to 
kiss you?” 

They were alone, and yet Jean Baptiste was so 
serious and his face was so sad, that the girl never 
dreamed of refusing. 

Their cheeks touched three times — according to the 
custom of the Province, where, correctly speaking, 
they do not kiss — and the young man went out 
without once looking behind him. 


ARRIVAL IN PARIS. 


65 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ARRIVAL IN PARIS. 

T he next day, the sun had been up about an hour. 

The resplendent sky was flecked here and there 
by a fleecy cloud, when the heavy Omonville stage, 
drawn by two sleepy horses, began the rough ascent of 
the road to Cherbourg. 

According to the old established usage, all the 
passengers walked up this hill. Bonne-Marie alone sat 
still by the side of the conductor — a surly old animal. 

As they drove past the spot where she had last 
spoken to Chamulot, the girl could not repress a shiver 
of horror. Involuntarily her eyes glanced over at 
the hedge, through which, on the same day, she had 
caught a glimpse of Jean Baptiste’s laughing face. He 
was there ! but pale and so changed by grief that he 
looked as if he had risen from a bed of illness. She 
waved her hand to him, and absolutely without her own 
volition — her last glance was one of tenderness and 
pity. 

The conductor touched his horses at this moment, 
and the stage moved rapidly on with a great rattling 
of wheels, and Jean Baptiste, after watching it disap- 
pear at the turning of the road, went sadly back to his 
home.. He wandered restlessly about his house without 
4 


66 


ARRIVAL IX PARIS. 


being able to find any spot that pleased liim, and at 
last, went to his fishing-boat and untied it from the 
stake to which it was moored. 

“Why, it is low tide!” cried a crowd of mischievous, 
inquisitive urchins. “Are you going crabbing in your 
boat?” 

Without paying any attention to this childish imper- 
tinence, Jean Baptiste rowed rapidly toward the open 
sea and then put up his sail. Thanks to the wind 
which was favorable, he had gone far enough to the 
east at the end of an hour to catch a glimpse of the 
cumbrous yellow veliicle, creeping like a tortoise 
toward Landemer. But this consolation was his last. 
The stage disappeared among the trees, and the fisher- 
man had nothing left to do but to amuse himself by 
casting his nets until the wind and the tide favored his 
return to Omonville. 

The Cure had given Bonne-Marie several letters of 
recommendation addressed to ladies in Cherbourg, and 
the young girl herself meant to apply to her old teach- 
ers at the boarding-school where sho had been educa- 
ted. With all this influence exerted in her behalf, 
she thought there would be no difficulty in procuring 
some situation in Paris. 

As a servant? By no means! but as an under 
teacher, somewhere — a governess in a family, perhaps 
— and after that? Well — the Future was in the 
hands of her Heavenly Father. 

After two days passed in going from house to house, 


ARRIVAL IN PARIS. 


67 


receiving excellent but generally most unpracticable 
advice, Bonne-Marie went to the railway station, and 
with all the hesitation and timidity of an inexperienced 
traveller, purchased her ticket, and the next morning, 
after a sleepless night, arrived in Paris. 

After the bewilderment of the first hour — after the 
hasty breakfast swallowed in a crSmerie^ — the usual 
resort of coachmen and draymen — where her beauty 
won for her several compliments, which seemed to 
Bonne-Marie like so many stings of a lash across her 
face — the young girl found herself in La Rue de 
Havre, where the morning sun gilded the fronts of the 
high stone houses and shone on the balconies filled 
with flowers and vines. 

The rumble of wheels had in some degree died away, 
now that the hour was past for the arrival of the trains 
from the country — a gentle animation had succeeded 
to the crowd and bustle of the earlier morning. Bonne- 
Marie asked her way and went toward the Madeleine^ 
timid and fearful, and yet with a hopeful heart. 


68 


MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 


CHAPTER IX. 

MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 

T he school with the address of which Mademoiselle 
Beslin had been furnished, was near the Champs 
Elysees ; and assisted by several persons who answered 
her inquiries with courtesy, the young stranger found 
herself at last before a dark green door, on which was 
inscribed in large letters, 

INSTITUTION BOCARD. 

The bell which Bonne-Marie had lightly touched, 
rang through the house; a dog barked outrageously, 
and just as the young girl, after waiting long and anx- 
iously, had decided that she would rather go away 
than again awaken all this clamor by another appeal 
to the innocent looking knob that seemed to be the 
offending cause, the door opened and the pointed nose 
of a precise and neatly -dressed concierge nearly hit 
Bonne-Marie in the eyes. 

“What do you want?” asked the woman, as she 
examined from head to foot, the country girl whose 
simple dress and provincial mourning indicated no 
great amount of the goods of this world. 

“ I would like to speak to Mademoiselle Bocard.” 

“ Mademoiselle cannot be seen at this hour, she is 


MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 


69 


taking her chocolate,” said Pointed Nose in a tone that 
was the reverse of polite. 

“ I have a letter,” replied Bonne-Marie so haughtily 
that the concierge repented of her rudeness. 

“Mademoiselle will receive you at twelve,” she 
answered more civilly. 

“ If you choose to give me your letter I will ” 

“No, thanks,” answered the girl, remembering that 
she had been especially advised to see the persons to 
whom her letters were addressed. 

This prudence raised her to an enormous height in 
the estimation of the concierge and induced her to say : 

“ If you will come back at eleven, I will tell Made- 
moiselle.” 

“Thank you,” said Bonne-Marie with a gracious 
bow and turned away, leaving on the mind of the 
astonished concierge the impression that she was a 
foreigner and a countess who wished to penetrate the 
interior of the school in disguise, for some reasons of 
her own. 

Three hours is a long space of time to get rid of, 
when one has nothing to do, and feels utterly alone 
and dreary. 

Tired from her sleepless night, fevered by her 
journey and her anxiety, Bonne-Marie went toward a 
green mass of waving boughs and leaves that she saw 
at the end of a street, and soon found herself on the 
Champs-Elyse^s. She seated herself on a bench in the 
shade of friendly trees, and looked with all her eyes. 


70 


MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 


Yes, this was the scene and the life of which she 
had dreamed ! It was amid these fragrant flowers and ’ 
these sparkling waters — for the hydrants were running 
freely — washing the dust from the turf and shrubs. 
It was surrounded by these fantastic caf^s and restau- 
rants that the girl felt that her real life would now 
begin. 

She should soon see the carriages and foaming horses, 
with difficulty reined in by liveried coachmen, whose 
existence had hitherto been only in her imagination. 
Bonne-Marie’s heart swelled with joy and pride; she 
was in Paris at last ! 

Several old beaux passed her on horseback, but they 
took no notice of the pretty creature half hidden 
among the azaleas. 

An occasional young man irreproachably dressed, 
with that indescribable air of good society, would also 
appear in the distance. Bonne-Marie watched them 
all with intense interest and curiosity. 

“Those are the people,” she said to herself, “with 
whom I ought to live.” 

But the girl felt no impatience. She was so near the 
realization of her dreams now, that she could afford to 
wait. She held her chimera by the wings and she 
could feel it flutter under her fingers. 

A clock struck eleven. Whence came the sound she 
knew not, but it rang out clearly, detaching its strokes, 
as it were, from the confused soun^ls and distant roar 
of carriages. Bonne-Marie started, but it was with 


MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 


71 


considerable difficulty that she rose — for all her limbs 
were stiff with fatigue — and returned to the Pension. 

She was received this time by Mademoiselle Bocard, 
who was as smiling and urbane as her concierge had 
been the contrary. She was as round as Pointed Nose 
had been sharp — figure and face, movements and 
smiles, were all as soft and luxurious as an Eastern rug. 

Bonne -Marie was dazzled by this amiability, and 
thought herself on the threshold of Paradise. 

“You desire to find a situation, do you, my child?” 
said the lady kindly. 

“ It was Monsieur Martin who sent you to me, that 
most estimable of cur4s.” 

“ Yes, Mademoiselle, it was Monsieur Martin, my 
cur^, who has known me from childhood,” answered 
the young girl, lifting her eyes to those of the lady. 

“Ah! I have heard of you before. If I am not 
mistaken you have recently lost your father ? ” 

Bonne-Marie colored and assented silently. It cost 
her a heavy pang to feel this recent wound touched by 
this strange hand. 

“ By an accident I believe ? ” 

The caressing eyes of Mademoiselle Bocard met the 
troubled ones of Bonne-Marie, and would unquestion- 
ably have succeeded in extorting from the girl the 
secrets of her innermost heart, if that heart had hap- 
pened to contain any. 

Tears prevented Mademoiselle Beslin from replying. 

The lady looked at her more sweetly than before. 


72 


MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 


“You have your Diploma, I presume? Ah! yes, to 
be sure. You wish to be an under-teacher, but do you 
know anything of the duties of this position?” 

“ I think and hope I do,” answered the girl, “ for I 
was eight years at boarding-school.” 

“What a frightful Cherbourg accent!” thought 
Mademoiselle Bocard; “Nothing can be done with 
her ! ” 

Yet she continued to smile on the stranger, thinking 
that if she would consent to conie without any salary, 
that she could dismiss the young girl just engaged to 
take care of the smaller pupils, and who was without a 
fault, except that of costing twenty-five francs per 
month. 

“You have some means, I presume?” insinuated 
Mademoiselle Bocard, “and it is for the sake of a 
home and to perfect yourself in your studies that you 
desire a situation?” 

Bonne-Marie understood the drift of this question 
instantly. Her clear Norman sense stood her in good 
stead in this emergency. She answered, therefore, 
while she mechanically put her hand to her breast to 
satisfy herself that the little pocket-book containing 
the two notes of a thousand francs each, which were 
found sewed up in her father’s mattrass, was safe : 

“I desire to perfect myself. Mademoiselle, in all 
things, but I have no fortune, and I must rely on the 
work of my brains or my hands, for the means of 
support.” 


MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 


73 


My readers have many of them seen the toy door 
close on the cuckoo who comes out to say the hour, in 
those little clocks manufactured in the Black Forest. 
Accustomed as they may be at the sudden and invari- 
able disappearance of the bird, they are none the less 
astonished each time it takes place — just in the same 
way did Mademoiselle Bocard smile and depart, leaving 
no trace behind her. 

“ Unfortunately,” she said, “ our number of teachers 
is complete.” 

If Bonne-Marie had clasped her hands in supplicar 
tion, and raised her lovely eyes swimming in tears ; if 
she had implored her to save her from poverty, it is 
possible that the directress would have taken her out 
of pure compassion, in the place of the other who cost 
twenty-five francs — on the condition be it understood 
that the new comer received no salary. But nothing 
of this kind occurred. Mademoiselle Beslin, with a 
salutation so dignified and graceful, that it impressed 
the teacher, rose, and turned towards the door. 

“ How well she carries herself I ” thought Mademoi- 
selle Bocard, “but her accent is positively deplorable!” 

“ Call again,” she said aloud, “ about the time of the 
vacation, and it is quite probable that there will be 
some changes in our staff at that time.” 

“Many thanks. Mademoiselle,” Bonne -Marie an- 
swered, with that haughty grace which had been 
bestowed upon her from some fairy godmother in her 
cradle, and she went away. 


74 


MADEMOISELLE B E S L I N . 


Mechanically, she turned her steps towards the 
Champs-Elys^es again. The entire air and look of the 
place had undergone a marked change. There were no 
more carriages to be seen — the equestrians had disap- 
peared — the few equipages had no coats of arms on 
their panels — they were from the livery stable, and 
contained people from the country, or strangers who 
were wandering about from morning until dawn, ever 
admiring the beauties of the capital. 

All at once Bonne-Marie realized that her appear- 
ance was the same as that of these country people. 

It was the sight of a woman in deep mourning that 
had done this work of enlightenment, and opened her 
eyes to this uncomfortable fact. 

This woman was walking very fast, but with a smooth, 
gliding step. Her dress was rigidly plain; and her 
black cashmere shawl was precisely like that worn by 
Bonne-Marie. Her small hat of black crape, with its 
long vail, had cost no more than the beribboned one, 
worn by the young girl ; and yet what a world of dif- 
ference in the hanging of those skirts, in the folds of 
that shawl, and in the way in which the hat was worn. 

“I am absurd,” said Bonne-Marie to herself, “but it 
will not last long ! ” 

At Cherbourg she had obtained the address of a 
small hotel, kept by honest people. She now went 
there, for, however indomitable her spirits might be, 
her bodily strength was leaving her. Her quiet man- 
ner secured her instant admission, and the mistress of 


MADEMOISELLE BESLIN. 


75 


the house at once took greatly into favor this young 
girl, who set herself at work so courageously to win her 
bread. 

Bonne -Marie was therefore happy in the thought 
that she had a shelter, and was safe from the many 
perils which assail women on the slippery pavements of 
Paris. 

That same day, towards evening, the girl started out 
once more, and went to various other persons to whom 
she had letters. Everywhere she was received in the 
same way and with the same result. 

At one place, however, she was offered a class of 
twenty pupils, at twenty francs per month ! Breakfast 
would be given her in addition, but her dinner and her 
lodging she must provide for herself. 

She went out with a dull rage in her heart at such 
rapacity, and asked herself how women could live who 
accepted such conditions. 


76 


CLOTILDE. 


CHAPTER X. 

CLOTILDE. 

1 ">WO weeks had elapsed. Bonne-Marie had no more 
letters to deliver. She had been everywhere, and 
furthermore, had answered a number of advertisements 
for governesses and the like, but all without avail. She 
had begun to think, seriously, of going into service, 
when the idea struck her that she could use her talents 
for embroidery. 

It was then that the girl realized, for the first time, 
the small value set on such labor. She was offered 
twenty francs for embroidery that would have been 
worth five hundred, and was required to leave as a 
deposit the worth of the materials. After the fourth 
attempt in this direction, Bonne-Marie saw she could 
never hope to earn her bread thus, and admitted with 
death in her soul, that Paris was no place for her. 

“ What shall I do now ? ” she asked herself, as she 
wandered sadly along one of the bridges. “ Where am 
I to find an asylum and a crust ! ” 

Each day she went to Champs-Elys^es, and there her 
strength returned to her as did that of Anteus in touch- 
ing the earth; the mere sight of this mirage was to her 
a glimpse of the promised land. Her mourning and 
her quiet reserve spared her many of the disagreeable 


CLOTILDE. 


77 


occurrences, which, had her air been different, would 
most assuredly have beset her at this period of her life. 

She took her seat therefore daily, between the hours 
of three and five, on a bench near some one of those 
gorgeous nurses and those dimpled babies with their 
sweeping skirts, and she watched the incessant flow of 
equipages and foot passengers who, at this hour, take 
their way to the Bois. 

One day, finding that the bench she usually occupied 
was filled with country people, she wandered on a little 
further, and found herself opposite one of those Concert 
Cafds, which attract, night after night, that very large 
class of people who do not enjoy the solitude of their 
own apartments. 

This class is far more numerous than is usually sup- 
posed, for among the people who tread the Parisian 
pavements, from five o’clock to midnight, there are 
fully half who do this to avoid the solitude of a home 
where nothing pleases them. 

Bonne-Marie passed on a little farther and seated 
herself on a bench by the side of a path that led from 
the avenue to a Oaf^ Chantant, which, although newly 
opened, was already very fashionable. 

With her hands loosely clasped on her knees, she 
sank into a sad reverie. Her small treasure had been 
seriously encroached upon already; autumn would 
soon be there, and then what would she do in those 
dark, dreary days. Must she make up her mind to 
return to Omonville, and bear the ridicule which she 


78 


C L O T 1 1. D E . 


knew would be her portion? The young girl’s pride 
was as deeply wounded at this thought as if a stranger 
had insulted her. 

“ Never ! ” she said to herself, “ never ! ” 

There was a rehearsal going on at the Cafe Chantant 
apparently, for several women had passed Mademoiselle 
Beslin with rolls of music in their hands. Their 
toilette was in no degree remarkable, their air was 
that of the ordinary Parisian who is always carefully 
dressed. 

Bonne-Marie was far from suspecting that these 
women, so like all others in her eyes, would appear 
that evening to more than one provincial, as beings 
from a different sphere. 

Two or three young men who seemed to be waiting 
for some one, were lounging about also, each with his 
roll of music under his arm. 

“ La Diva ! Here comes La Diva,” said one of 
them, indicating by a look a coupe which was drawing 
up at the side of the pavement. 

The young men hastened towards it with an air of 
laughing, and possibly exaggerated respect — bowed to 
the lady who emerged from the carriage, which drove 
away hastily, and the Diva, bowing to all her friends 
with one comprehensive greeting, slightly raised her 
long skirts of silk and lace with one hand, and moved 
toward the cafL 

Bonne-Marie contemplated this scene in a listless 
sort of way ; she was heartsick as well as physically 


C L O T I I. D E . 


79 


weary. She thought these men very silly, and the 
woman extremely insolent. 

“ What a pretty blonde ! ” said one of the young 
men in a low voice, attracting the attention of the Diva 
to Mademoiselle Beslin. 

The lady turned her superb black eyes on Bonne- 
Marie and stood still in utter amazement. Bonne- 
Marie turned a haughty, supercilious face upon her. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle,” said the singer 
with some hesitation, “ but you are so astonishingly 
like one of my old school friends ” 

She turned away, but Bonne-Marie started up. 

“ Clotilde ! ” she exclaimed, “ Clotilde ! Have you 
made your fortune ? ” 

This artless question brought a smile to the lips of 
more than one hearer, but Clotilde did not care ; she 
laughed heartily. 

“ Not exactly,” she answered gayly, — “but where on 
earth do you come from, Bonne-Marie ? Why are you 
here?” 

“ Not because I have made my fortune — of that I 
am quite sure ! ” answered Mademoiselle, with a forced 
smile. 

“And you would repair this negligence of fate, I 
fancy,” interrupted her old friend. “I should not 
think it so difficult a matter, for you are wonderfully 
pretty, but you are in black?” 

“ Mademoiselle Clotilde, they are waiting for you to 
begin the rehearsal,” a well -shaven individual now 


80 


CLOTILDE. 


came to say. That he belonged to the concert troupe 
and not to the cafe was easy to see, when his emaci- 
ated figure was contrasted with those of the well fed 
waiters. 

Mademoiselle Clotilde shrugged her shoulders. 

“ That is always the way,” she murmured. “ Where 
are you living, Bonne-Marie ? ” 

The girl told her. 

“ Heavens and Earth ! why are you in such a place ? ” 
said the singer with uplifted brows. “ I cannot go into 
such a part of the town ; come and see me.” 

“ When ? ” asked Bonne-Marie with quickly beating 
heart. 

“ To-morrow morning at eleven ! ” and La Diva 
handed a card to her friend and disappeared behind 
the vine-wreathed door. 

When she was alone, Bonne-Marie looked at the card 
on ^hich these words were inscribed, 

MADEMOISELLE CLOTILDE. 

DRAMATIC ARTIST. 

“Dramatic artist?” repeated the young girl. Then it 
is on the stage that fortunes are made, and why not ? ” 

She returned to her small lodgings, and all about her 
seemed changed. The old mahogany wardrobe, the 
large-figured curtains, the coarse cotton sheets which 
were especially horrible to her who had always been 
accustomed to the lavender-scented linen which alone 


CLOTILDE. 


81 


is used in the provinces, now filled her with disgust. 
The dinner she could not eat. The smell of cooking 
made her head ache, and the noise from the restaurant 
was insufferable, for it penetrated even to the remote 
room she occupied. 

All these poor details now seemed absolutely squalfd 
in her eyes. How different it all was from the silk 
dress of Clotilde and the perfume which exhaled from 
her laces and ribbons. 

Bonne -Marie passed a wretched night, was up and 
dressed at daybreak, and busy in giving to her simple 
black dress as good an appearance as possible. Long 
before the hour appointed, she was on her way to the 
quarter inhabited by her brilliant friend; and had 
ample leisure to admire many a sumptuous dwelling. 

The windows shrouded in lace; the furniture seen 
dimly through these curtains ; the mirrors, which 
gleamed from under those Italian awnings — extended 
to shut out the August sun — all attracted her, and 
strengthened her, and revived her ambitious dreams. 

At last the clock struck eleven, and she pulled the 
bell of a door painted light gray. The house was 
coquettish and daint3^ A woman servant appeared, 
and Bonne-Marie was shown into a salon that realized 
all her dreams. 

It was only Cretonne, but it was all so fresh and 
pretty. The woodwork was painted in light gray, with 
slender lines of gold, and the portieres and curtains 
were a rich red. Boule furniture harmonized with the 
5 


82 


C L O T I L D E . 


subdued tones of the coverings. Flowers and masses 
of green were seen everywhere that a vase or a flower- 
pot could be placed, while two mirrors — one opposite 
the other — reflected the crystal chandelier. 

Bonne-Marie had never seen such splendor, and stood 
transfixed. 

“It is pretty, isn’t it?” said Clotilde, behind her. 

The young provincial turned round quickly. 

“It is superb!” she said. “But it must have been 
frightfully expensive.” 

Clotilde smiled, shrugged her shoulders and drew 
her friend toward a low sofa. 

“Tell me your whole story, dear,” she said, “for you 
must have had at least one romance in your life. 
Every one has as much as that, and besides, but for 
something of the kind you would not be here.” 

“I have no romance whatever!” sighed Bonne-Marie. 

She related to Clotilde all the disastrous events 
which had made her sole mistress of her fortunes. She 
unvailed to her friend’s eyes all the mysteries of her 
ambitious young heart. She was not ashamed in Clo- 
tilde’s presence, for had not her friend reached the 
end at which she herself now aimed, and therefore was 
it not clear that Clotilde must know something of the 
same suspense and aspirations that were now eating 
her own heart away. 

“No romance ! Not the smallest one in the world?” 
insisted the singer. 

Bonne-Marie shook her head, but at the same time 


CLOTILDE. 


83 


blushed as she thought of Jean Baptiste, for her con- 
science reproached her, and yet she did not care to 
give up the fisherman’s name as a subject for jesting to 
her brilliant friend. 

“Well! well!” cried Clotilde, gayly, “you are cer- 
tainly a most extraordinary young woman. The idea 
of your coming to Paris to make your fortune, and to 
hope to do it by honest labor with your two hands ! ” 

“ But you ? ” asked Bonne-Marie ; “ was it not your 
talent which gave you all these pretty things ? ” 

Clotilde smiled, but did not reply immediately. 

“ You must make a great deal of money,” said the 
girl. 

“ Of course I do ! ” answered Clotilde, jumping up ; 
“now come to breakfast!” 

The dining-room indicated the same comfort — ele- 
gant without pretension, which is the true luxury 
of those persons who do not care to throw handfuls of 
money out of the window. Nothing was less like a 
feudal chS,teau than this pretty box, but all that modern 
taste had introduced was found within reach. 

The two pretty women seated themselves opposite 
each other, and chatted gayly while they tasted the 
dainties which had hitherto been a sealed book to Bonne- 
Marie, and now made her open her eyes in wonder. 
The window looked out on the leafy garden of a great 
hotel. The sun, softened by the green blinds, fiashed 
an occasional golden ray on the crystal carafes and on 
the well-kept silver. 


84 


A NEW IDEA. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A NEW IDEA. 

I T is needless to say that Mademoiselle Beslin in- 
tensely enjoyed this glimpse of a luxurious, indolent 
life, so entirely unlike her own. 

Clotilde told her own story — in very general terms, 
let us here state — and her school friend listened in 
breathless amazement. The debut of the Diva, her 
first triumph — all that heady wine of celebrity intoxi- 
cated her. 

“ But,” said Bonne-Marie, after a time, “ what was 
it that put it into your head to go on the stage ? ” 
Clotilde smiled, and played with the fruit on her 
plate. 

“ I was urged to do it,” she said at last, with a little 
movement of the pretty shoulders to which was due a 
great part of her success. 

“ Who urged you ? ” continued her curious friend. 

“ A man of wit and celebrity.” 

“ Where did you make his acquaintance ? ” 

“At church.” 

“ At church ! ” repeated Bonne-Marie. “ Why, it is 
a real romance ! ” 

“ No indeed, no romance whatever,” replied Clotilde, 
carelessly ; “ you know I came to Paris to give lessons 
in singing and on the piano, at a boarding-school.” 


A NEW IDEA. 


85 


“ And then ” 

“Well, I had a good voice — and have it still. I 
was wretchedly paid for the lessons I gave eight hours 
in the day.” 

“How much were you paid?” asked Bonne-Marie, 
always eager for information. 

“Forty francs per month. I was compelled to 
sleep in the dormitory with the younger children, and 
to take care of them at night. I was fed and my 
washing was done — and what food and what washing ! 
and those children — shall I ever forget them ! ” 

Clotilde sank back in her chair and laughed. Bonne- 
Marie laughed too, but the under-current of anxiety at 
her heart, caused her to return to her practical ques- 
tions. 

“ Well ! then you gave lessons ! ” 

“Yes, and they made me sing in the parish church 
during the month of May. Ah! my dear, I made a 
perfect revolution there. Never had the good women 
who went there in the evening heard anything like it. 
They brought their husbands, and finally it came to 
pass that a newspaper man came in. He wrote an 
article ; and one fine evening the church was so full of 
amateurs that it was no longer a church — it was a 
concert.” 

“ And your boarding-school mistress ? ” 

“She said it was a disgrace — that was one of her 
favorite phrases — and announced to me that I was 
no longer to attend the services in honor of the Holy 
Virgin.” 


86 


A NEW IDEA. 


“ And why, pray? ” 

“Why? Well, it would be really difficult to say — 
she had three reasons. The first being that she feared 
lest I should discover that forty francs per month and 
a bed in the dormitory with the children, was hardly 
payment for the services I rendered her. The second 
was that she was jealous of me.” 

“ Jealous ! and of what ? ” 

“ Of everything,” answered Clotilde, throwing her 
head back haughtily ; “ of my beauty, my intelligence 
and my success. The third reason, ah ! the third ! ” 
and Diva hummed the air sung by Paris, in La Belle 
II4Une, “ A third there was, I am certain, but I never 
found out what it was, I believe. At all events I, just 
as usual, came down stairs with my hat on, the next 
night at a quarter to eight, to go with my class to 
church. As soon as she saw me she forbade my going.” 

“ And what did you do ? ” 

“ I bowed politely, and went out in front of her and 
directly to the church, and took the place where I was 
in the habit of sitting. 

“ She had not dreamed of my doing this, and when 
she entered the chapel, I was singing the Ave^ maris 
Stella. 

“Ah! my dear,” sighed Clotilde, “I don’t think I 
ever sang so well before or since ! ” 

“ I can understand that,” cried Bonne-Marie eagerly ; 
“ and then what happened ? ” 

“ The journalist of whom I spoke, was there, and when 


A NEW IDEA. 


sr 


I went out he was waiting for me on the steps, and he 
made me such compliments as were quite enough to 
turn a girl’s head. 

“ He handed me his card and told me to appeal to 
him whenever I needed his services. I thanked him of 
course, and took the card. 

“ When I rang at the door of the Pension, for I was of 
course a good deal after hours, the servant opened the 
door and handed me my clothes done up in a bundle, and 
my last wages wrapped in a paper. I was dismissed, or 
rather not to put too fine a point upon it, I was kicked 
out of doors. And, please to remember, without any 
certificate ! ” 

Bonne-Marie, in utter consternation, looked at her 
friend, who laughed in great glee. 

“Yes — I laugh now, but I did not laugh then, I 
assure you! I slept that night in a garret inhabited 
by fleas; and the next morning I called on the Jour- 
nalist — a most charming man.” 

“ Old?” 

“ Young, my dear — young and handsome, and kind. 
He at once did his best to find a position for me. This 
did not seem to be a very easy matter ; but in the 
meantime I sang in several churches — thanks to his 
recommendations ; — and then one morning I was break- 
fasting with him — and I met ” 

“What! You breakfasted with him?” 

“Oh! sometimes I did. Well then, this day as I 
was telling you, I met the manager of a concert troupe 


88 


A NEW IDEA. 


— a cafe concert troupe, you understand. They asked 
me to sing, I did so, and the manager was delighted ; 
and finally, to cut a long story short, he engaged me — 
and I sing every night.” 

“You will take me to hear you, will you not?” cried 
Bonne-Marie, eagerly. 

“ You can hear me now if you choose!” answered the 
Diva, running to her piano in the next room, where, 
after a little prelude, she sang an aria from an operetta 
then much in vogue, with so much expression in her 
rich voice, that Bonne-Marie was thrilled from head to 
foot. 

But the strange words, the mocking intonation which 
made the success of the part, bewildered our little 
country girl. 

“ Do you mean that you sing such songs as those 
before people?” she asked in horror, as La Diva twirled 
round suddenly on the piano stool, and clapped her 
hands with an air of irresistible fun and mischief. 

“They like it,” said Clotilde, with an audacious 
wink. “Now come and see all my pomades and paints, 
and my brushes with which I ornament my face. It is 
ridiculous to be sure, for I am far prettier, in my 
opinion, when I let myself alone, and appear just as the 
good Lord made me ! ” 

Bonne -Marie, with a certain vague repugnance 
Followed her friend into the dressing-room, and con- 
templated the various articles whose use and meaning, 
were carefully explained by her friend. 


A NEW IDEA. 


89 


The Diva, now a thorough Parisian^ took the greatest 
possible delight in watching the impression she made 
on her friend. It seemed to revive in herself something 
of the innocence and ignorance that had been hers, 
before she was launched into the corruption of her 
present life. 

After a long talk, wherein Clotilde had always, 
answered and Bonne-Marie always questioned, a silence 
followed, and the two friends, each curled in her own 
corner of the couch, looked at each other with frank 
curiosity and interest. 

“And you, what do you mean to do?” said Clotilde,. 
finally, when she had terminated her mental inventory 
of the attractions of her companion. 

“I do not know,” answered Bonne -Marie, with a 
gesture of profound discouragement. 

“ Can you sing? You sang once.” 

“ Yes, I know I did, but I rarely do now.” 

“ Sing something this moment ! ” and Clotilde ran 
back to the piano. 

“ But I do not know anything — nothing but our old 
sentimental ballads and romances which we used to 
sing at boarding school.” 

“Sing one of those — it would be very droll!” 

Bonne-Marie began one of those preposterous melo- 
dies which belonged to the times of our grandmothers, 
and which are still found in the repertoire of some of 
the establishments for the education of young ladies. 

By degrees her voice grew firm, and she succeeded 


90 


A NEW IDEA. 


in imparting to the insipid words an extraordinary 
amount of expression, and galvanized them as it were 
into life. 

“ You have sung that infinitely better than I could 
have done ! ” cried Clotilde. 

“Why do you laugh at me?” said Bonne-Marie, 
reproachfully. 

“ Why do I laugh at you, goose ! ” replied her friend. 
“ I am not laughing. What I say is true. You have a 
way of pronouncing the words ‘Heaven, birds, and 
flowers ’ that I could never achieve were I to practice it 
a hundred years. You must have felt all this. You 
have done your share of dreaming, I fancy ! ” 

The country girl colored. 

“And yet you say — you love no one.” 

“No one, but you.” 

Clotilde smiled, and rolled one of her glossy curls 
over her finger, and then as she tossed it lightly back 
over her shoulder, she said: 

“ I am unlike you, then, for I do love some one.” 

“Who is he?” 

“ He is rich, and a business man.” 

“Young?” 

“Of course — I detest old men; and then too, one 
can be young but once.” 

Bonne-Marie looked at her friend, questioningly. It 
was clear that her mind was not quite at ease. 

“You see him then, daily, do you?” 

“ Of course I do ; — he dines here to-day.” 


A NEW IDEA. 


91 


“ And — you will marry him? ” 

Clotilde gave a strange, forced laugh. 

“ No,” she said, “ I think not. But that does not pre- 
vent me from loving him. Quite the contrary, I think ! ” 
She pronounced this aphorism with such superb 
aplomb, that Bonne-Marie was entirely out of counte- 
nance, and did not know what to say. 

“You are too innocent, by far!” resumed Clotilde, 
“ but it will not last. I have no concern on that score. 
But in the meantime try to find out the things you want 
to know without asking so many questions. I think 
you will find that method more satisfactory. And now, 
tell me, do you wish to sing in public, as I do?” 

Bonne-Marie clasped her hands in an ecstacy of 
delight, but did not speak. 

“ With your Madonna-like face,” continued Clotilde, 
“ you would make a signal failure if you should attempt 
my style; but sentiment is your forte. Some people 
like that sort of thing. Shall I present you to my 
Manager. He never refuses me anything ! ” 

Bonne-Marie nearly smothered her friend with kisses. 
“Now then, be off with you!” exclaimed Clotilde, 
laughing. 

“ This is the hour that Joseph is due ” 

“ Joseph ? Who is Joseph ? Your servant ? ” 

“No, indeed. Men in society affect that style of 
name, now -a- days — and servants are all Arthurs and 
Raouls. Joseph is — well, he is my best friend. I wish 
you to make his acquaintance, but not to-day. Come to 
me again to-morrow at the same hour. 


92 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


CHAPTER XII." 

SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 

B ONNE-MARIE found herself in the street again, 
just as the heat of the day had began to decrease. 
The shadows of the trees lengthened on the Champs- 
Elys^es — the spray of the fountains mingled with the 
dust of the macadamised pavements, and made a sort of 
mist around the large chestnut trees. The carriages 
had begun their evening activity, and all was bright 
and gay. 

Bonne-Marie thought she would go and look at the 
outside of the CafS Chantant. 

“ Yes,” she said to herself, “ I will sing there if I can.” 
She went home, past the flower market of the Made- 
leine, where even the flowers have an air of effrontery. 
The Parma violets were out of season, and were pale 
and listless, and as to the white roses it was easy to see 
that they would fade that night in the loge of some 
actress. 

But Bonne-Marie had no such intuitions as these. 
She bought a bouquet for four sous, and took it to her 
wretched little room, where she dreamed until morning 
of applause, of flaring gas, and of bouquets surrounded 
by lace paper. 

“ Yes, ma helle^ it is all settled,” said Clotilde to her 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


93 


friend, the next day, toward the end of breakfast. 
“ Maur^sset will give you a hearing next week.” 

“ Maur^sset ? ” asked Bonne-Marie, quickly. 

“ Yes, the old wretch, my Manager ! ” 

The country girl asked herself, with a shiver, how 
any one could venture to speak of such an autocrat with 
so little ceremony. A Manager of course was to be 
respected, not only for his age, but for his position. 
Clotilde was not sufficiently parliamentary in her 
language. 

“ I have a word of warning to whisper in your ear, 
my dear,” said Clotilde. “ Look out for the manager.” 
“ Look out for him ? And why ? ” 

“You must find that out for yourself, only remember 
my words, for they are words of wisdom. Shall we say 
Monday ? Will you be ready ? ” 

“ Any time you please, Clotilde ; this very moment, 
if you say so.” 

“ Bless your dear little heart I ” cried the Diva, “ if 
you were to go to see Mauresset in that little black 
woolen gown, and sing that romance for him, he would 
insist on you paying him five hundred francs for per- 
mission to make your dehut under his auspices. Your 
eyes might be like stars and as large as moons, it would 

make no difference ” 

“ But how then shall I go to him ? ” 

“ In the most distingue toilette possible. Black faille, 
linen collar, not a scrap of lace, but ample drapery, and 
more ample aplomb ” 


94 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


“But that would cost much money, and ” 

“Simpleton! you need not pay now. I will take 
you to my dressmaker. All you need trouble yourself 
about is a dozen pair of gloves. Are your hands pre- 
sentable ? ” 

Bonne-Marie held them out to Clotilde with a shame- 
faced air. 

“ Red, very red ! But the skin is fine, and they are 
very well shaped. Wear gloves with sixteen buttons 
for your dehut, and don’t let human eye rest on your 
hands until they are white.” 

“ And how long will that be ? ” asked the girl, with 
timid anxiety. 

Clotilde went off in a fit of laughter. 

“ She is delicious ! on my word she is truly delicious I 
But don’t you see, ma helle, that if your hands have 
nothing to do but grow white, that it cannot take very 
long. You must select two or three romances more 
appropriate than the one you sang yesterday.” 

“We will try over a half dozen, and you will have 
two of them before Monday.” 

With such able instructions on all points, Bonne- 
Marie found the day of her interview with the Manager 
close at hand; and on the fateful Monday morning, 
with her hair dressed by a coiffeur, and wearing the 
lightest possible gloves, and embarrassed by the numer- 
ous flounces of her silk robe, the girl entered the 
presence of the redoubtable Maur^sset, encouraged by 
her brilliant friend. 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


95 


“ Here she is ! Monsieur Maurdsset, here she is I this 
deep sea pearl — this pearl of price ! She has as much 
talent as she has beauty, I do assure you ! ” 

“ That is precisely what we wish to discover ! ” grum- 
bled the potentate, hardly looking at Bonne-Marie, such 
was his eagerness to press a kiss upon the hand of La 
Diva, who gave him in return a friendly little slap on 
his cheek. 

“Sing us something!” he said imperiously, to the 
trembling girl. 

“ What shall I sing ? ” she asked. 

“ Anything you choose, it is of very little consequence 
what — go on.” 

These words were not especially encouraging. He 
seated himself comfortably in an arm-chair in front of 
the piano. Clotilde, drawing off her gloves, placed 
herself at the instrument ; and Bonne-Marie, suddenly 
warming up, sang one of those sentimental ballads 
which please fifty out of every hundred persons who 
hear it, far more than any higher order of music could 
have done. 

“ Not so bad ! ” said Mauresset, coldly. “ And this 
is all you can do ? ” 

“We warble. Monsieur Mauresset, said Clotilde, 
gravely. “We do nothing but that, but we do that 
well!” 

“Ah! to be sure, I see. You adopt the simple 
style?” 

Bonne-Marie could find nothing to say in reply. 


96 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


“ Some people like that sort of a thing ! ” continued 
the Manager. “ Now, try again ? ” 

The young girl, encouraged by a malicious glance 
from Clotilde, sang another ballad, which, since then, 
has made the tour of the world. At the time, however, 
that Bonne-Marie sang it, it was fresh and new. 

“ That might do,” said the manager. 

“ Yes, indeed, particularly now that Amy Soleil has 
gone, and you have no one to replace her as yet,” 
added Clotilde, with the most innocent air in the world. 
Maurdsset looked at her angrily. 

“ How much will you give me,” he said, turning to 
Bonne-Marie, “ if I should engage you ? ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” interposed Clotilde, drawing up her 
beautiful figure to its full height. “ Go, my dear, into 
the other room and wait for me. I do not need you 
now, this is my part of the business.” 

Bonne-Marie left the salon with tears in her eyes. 

“ Upon my word, Clotilde,” said Maur^sset, sulkily, 
“ I think you might treat me with a little more respect 
in the presence of my people ! ” 

“ Old wretch ! ” replied the unabashed Diva, with a 
shrug of those shoulders — famed throughout Paris. 
“ She will never be one of your people unless you are 
more amiable than you are to-day. What do you 
intend to give her ? ” 

“To give her? Why, you don’t expect me to pay 
her, do you ? No indeed I I don’t care for her in that 
way.” 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 97 

“Very well, then. Not one note will I sing to- 
night ! ” 

And Clotilde walked toward the door. 

Maur^sset looked at her. 

“ You will not sing ! ” he exclaimed in utter amaze- 
ment. “We will see whether you do or not.” 

“ See as much as you please. I am ill ! ” 

“ I will send my physician to examine you.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself. He will find me in bed 
with leeches on. I have a fever.” 

“ You will sing, fever or no fever.” 

“ I will put a mustard plaster on the end of my nose, 
and I will have it spread round the theatre that you 
struck me ! ” 

“No one wiU believe it.” 

“ Indeed, you are mistaken. Everybody will believe 
any hateful thing I choose to say of you.” 

The Diva gathered up her skirts. 

“ Good-morning, Monsieur Maur^sset,” she said with 
a serene smile. “I will call to-morrow at the same 
hour, to ascertain if you have changed your mind.” 

“Clotilde!” 

“What is it?” 

“ It is simply ridiculous to expect me to engage this 
girl.” 

“ Ridiculous ! It is you who are ridiculous ! ” cried 
the haughty Clotilde, dropping her silk with a noise 
that sounded like the unreefing of sails. “ Look at it 
yourself. You are lucky enough to have me bring to 
6 


98 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


you a beautiful girl, well educated and well bred, with 
a delicate voice — an accent 

“That of Cherbourg — Cherbourg,” interrupted 
Maur^sset. 

“ In eight days, there will not be a trace of it left,” 
continued Clotilde, quite undisturbed. “ Her voice is 
the most touching and sympathetic I ever heard in my 
life — enough to bring tears into the eyes of all the 
crocodiles in Paris. She is a girl who is made for love, 
and yet she is pure and good.” 

“Pure and good,” repeated Maurcsset, with a skepti- 
cal air. 

“ Pure and good, you wretch ! so good that she asked 
me if I did not receive an enormous salary to enable me 
to furnish my house so well.” 

“ And what did you say ? ” 

“ None of your business ! ” 

“ You must have given her a very erroneous idea of 
your engagement with me, Clotilde. This, permit me 
to say, was a very great mistake.” 

“ Do you dare to say that you do not give me twenty- 
five thousand francs for singing six months ? ” 

“ But that is to you, Clotilde ! Do you suppose I 
could do the same for any one else ? ” 

“Yes, in one moment, if you found any one who 
sang better than I,” replied the Diva, haughtily. “ But 
3^ou have not yet discovered one.” 

“ I have not discovered one,” answered the manager, 
“ simply because I do not look for one.” 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


99 


“ You have looked — and you did not succeed. You 
offered Plenotte thirty thousand francs. You made 
your offer in black and white, and she refused it. She 
has not the half of a voice, while I — I have a voice and 
a half! You are perfectly ungrateful I ” 

“ Clotilde — I swear to you ” 

“ I have read your letter I ” 

, And as Clotilde uttered these crushing words she 
crossed her arms and looked the manager straight in 
the eyes. She found him so droll in his demoralized 
condition, that she laughed aloud. 

“ Who in thunder showed you that letter ? ” 

“ A little bird,” answered Clotilde. 

The Manager bowed his abashed head. 

“ Don’t let us quarrel,” he said with a paternal air. 
“ Do you insist on my engaging your friend ? ” 

“Absolutely, or I will not sing another note for you. 
I feel that my voice is leaving me entirely. In another 
twenty -five hours I shall not be able to raise a note,” 
said the actress, in a hoarse whisper. 

“Well then I will give her three hundred francs per 
month ! That is liberal, I am sure.” 

“And dress her,” said Clotilde, slyly. 

“Ah! No indeed! by no means.” 

“ Then double your price and we will think about it.” 
“ Do you mean that six hundred francs would not be 
enough ? ” 

“ Now, how bright you are ! Who would have sup- 
posed that you could have thought I meant that?”* 
And Clotilde laughed. 


100 SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


“ How much do you want for her ? ” asked the manar 
ger, impatiently. 

“ Eight thousand francs for the first year, twelve for 
for the next, and after then to agree on new terms.” 

“Clotilde, you are mad! ” cried Maurdsset. 

The actress raised her eyebrows in gentle wonder. 

“ Let me tell you,” she said, “ that my friend is a very 
quiet little person. She means to marry a rich man.” 

“ Ah ! ” answered Maur^sset, thoughtfully ; “ that 
changes the question entirely. If she has decided to 
marry, it will not be at once I presume.” 

“ Not until she had brought a quantity of fish to 
your net, at all events,” cried Clotilde. 

“I will give her ten thousand francs on condition 
that she will not marry until after the expiration of the 
first year.” 

“ Trafficker in human flesh ! ” groaned Clotilde ; 

“ and yet people pretend that the buying and selling of 
slaves is abolished 1 Then if she engages at ten thou- 
sand, you will give her cash down, two thousand.” 

“ One thousand the day of her first appearance ! ” 

“How do you wish her to appear — in a flannel skirt 
and a nightcap?” 

“ Upon my word, that would not be a bad idea,” said . 
Mauresset, caressing his moustache. “ But I will give 
half now, and the other half in six months.” 

“ No, two thousand this very moment, or I will take 
her oflP, and you will never see either of us again.” 

Mauresset reluctantly opened his iron safe and took 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 101 

out two bills for one thousand francs each, and handed 
them to Clo tilde. 

“How many sighs and groans and maledictions 
against the Manager these represent ! ” said the act- 
ress, as she took them. “You cannot boast of being 
very liberal at all events.” 

“ I am quite as liberal as others,” said Maurdsset, as 
he prepared a receipt and contract. 

“ I am not so sure of that,” replied Clotilde. 

“ Let me see the conditions with which you propose 
to burthen that poor innocent. Give me that pen.” 

Clotilde took her seat at the Manager’s desk and pug- 
naciously attacked every clause which she considered 
onerous for her protSgSe. When all was triumphantly 
concluded — after a long and weary battle — she rose 
and told her companion to read, ponder and inwardly 
reflect. 

“ You may boast of taking the most abominable 
advantage of your position,” he sighed, as he laid the 
paper down. “ Ah, if I could only replace you ! ” 

“ But that is precisely what you cannot do, therefore, 
it is you who take advantage of your position,” she 
answered with a laugh. 

Bonne-Marie was now summoned. The period of 
her waiting had been so long, that she had lost all 
hope, and supposed herself to have been condemned 
and rejected. Her surprise, therefore, was all the 
greater, on seeing the contract and the receipt ready 
for her signature, and she took the pen handed her by 
Clotilde almost without knowing what she was doing. 


102 


SIGNING THE CONTRACT. 


“ Put your name there, simpleton ! ” said her friend, 
showing her the exact spot to affix her signature, “ and 
here, put these in your pocket.” 

She slipped into the hand of Bonne-Marie the two 
thousand franc notes, at which the girl stared with 
affrighted eyes. 

“ She is pretty, very pretty ! ” said Maurdsset, exam- 
ining her through his eye glass. 

“ What shall we call her?” 

“ The Rose of Salency,” said Clotilde with a laugh. 

“We shall have to think about it,” he answered 
meditatively, and while Bonne-Marie put her precious 
money carefully into her porte-monnaie, he approached 
the Diva and whispered in her ear : ' 

“ Why the deuce do you have anything to do with 
this girl — she is as pretty as a pink. Why are you not 
jealous of her ? ” 

“We do not pursue the same game I ” said Clotilde, 
quietly, “she is after a husband, and I — well, you 
know I think a husband ” 

“I know you are too independent. Mademoiselle,” 
interrupted Maurdsset, — “and now ladies, good-by, 
until the evening.” 

Clotilde bore her friend away in triumph. Bonne- 
Marie moved as if she were half asleep and wondered 
if it were not all a dream. 


her first appearance. 


103 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HER FIRST APPEARANCE. 

W HEN it was known that Maurdsset had engaged 
a new attraction, the artists attached to his 
troupe became very curious, the men — contrary to the 
received idea — more curious than the women. But 
for Clotilde who never left her, Bonne-Marie would 
unquestionably have suffered much annoyance. At 
the first glance the ladies called her “an affected 
thing,” and the men “ a beauty.” Such contradictory 
opinions as these, naturally led to many collisions. 
But the whole troupe stood in wholesome fear of Clo- 
tilde, whose exceptional position and unrestrained 
tongue, were for Bonne-Marie the best possible shield 
and buckler. 

Several rehearsals were ordered, that the new star 
might become accustomed to the orchestra and the glare 
of the gas. 

The important day at last arrived. Hand bills were 
freely circulated. The milky globes surrounding the 
enclosure, were more clear than usual, and there was a 
more liberal allowance of gas lighting up the dusky 
acacias. The floating dust of the summer evening was 
transformed to luminous vapor, and against this back- 
ground the heavy masses of foliage on the tall trees 
stood out distinctly. 


104 


HER FIRST APPEARANCE. 


Here and there, branches caught the light from some 
candelabra and displayed their delicate tracery even to 
their palest green leaves, as they waved in the air, which 
was not so much the wind of Heaven, as the heated air 
from the gas burners. 

The enclosure was surrounded by evergreens, which 
were intended to protect the little theatre from profane 
eyes ; that this intention was not successful, was shown 
by the quadruple row of heads beyond it. 

There assembled regularly every night, those persons 
whose purses were empty, and who obtained during 
the day, only the smell of* the meals at the restaurants, 
and by night, only the echoes from the theatre ; those 
who do not love work enough to even struggle on with 
it, that they may thereby win the means of enjoying a 
few hours of indolence ; those, who like neither the 
solitary fireside of the bachelor, nor the crowded home 
of the married man; those who say every morning 
“ Moseau was not in voice yesterday,” or, “ Julia’s 
ballad was hissed,” thus giving themselves the air of 
men of elegant leisure. 

All the endless varieties of the same family were 
to be found in this spot, attracted by the hand-bills and 
the placards, but too poor to pay the entrance fee. 
There were also artists there, who came to catch cer- 
tain effects of light, for these places are not without 
their poetic side, as Alfred de Musset has proved to us. 

Beyond these heads, beyond the evergreens and the 
line of lights, people passing by, caught a glimpse of a 


HER FIRST APPEARANCE. 


105 


brilliant gulf, with beds of flowers each side — flowers 
which quickly withered in this unhealthy light and 
atmosphere. Beyond this was the stage, protected by 
its triple row of gas burners, and there on this stage set 
with scenery of trees and meadows, stood Marie in 
white silk — her dress cut square and low over the 
bust. She was singing in pathetic tones, in which real 
emotion was so interwoven with the false and the 
assumed, that she herself did not know where the one 
began or the other ended. 

“ J’ai quittee ma soeur au berceau 
Pour venir dans la grande ville.” 

And there was a tear in her voice as she went on to 
describe the grief of the orphan as she met the cold 
looks of the hard world. She elicited enthusiastic 
applause from her audience, by the gesture and voice 
in which she — although dying of hunger — repulsed 
the gold — “ the price of shame.” 

And these people — skeptics and cynics — applauded 
her with energy. Bonne-Marie, without suspecting it, 
had infused a new element into the olla podrida of 
Parisian life. She had sung a moral ballad at a Cafe 
Chantant with success ! 

It was an absolute ovation. Vainly did her compan- 
ions shrug their shoulders and turn their backs on the 
girl who had dropped, as it were, from the skies, among 
them. All true musicians recognized the peculiar 
quality of her fre^h, clear voice, and all realized that 


106 HER FIRST APPEARANCE. 


there was sometliing extraordinary about her — a 
dignity and a charm which prevented her being ap- 
proached other than with the most entire respect. 

The amateurs and habitues of the place came, of 
course, to see “this rising star,” or, “this budding 
star,” as a youth with a vast display of shirt bosom and 
hair carefully parted in the middle, solemnl}'^ remarked 
to her. 

“ Bonne-Marie smiled, and even exchanged a few 
courteous words with one and all, but no one ventured 
on any impertinent familiarity. 

“ How the deuce does she do it ? Why is she so dif- 
ferent from all the others ? ” said some to Mauresset. 

“ Hush ! ” said the astute Manager, placing his finger 
on his lips, “ she is a young lady of the best possible 
family. Hush ! ” 

“Who makes her appearance here out of love of 
you?” 

“ Hush ! Heart of ice — has never loved ! — Will not 
listen to one such word. Hush ! ” 

“ Come now, Mauresset, let us be serious.” 

“ I am serious, entirely so. Try yourselves, gentle- 
man, burn your own wings in the flame if you choose.” 

And Maurdsset laughed softly and went off on the 
tips of his toes as if in a sick room. 

“ The rascal ! he is quite capable of having put that 
clause into her engagement ! ” exclaimed some one who 
builded better than he knew. 

That evening Bonne-Marie returned to her pretty 


HER FIRST APPEARANCE. 


107 


room on the fourth floor of a good house in a good 
situation. It was a room for birds of passage, which 
the coquetry and doubtful taste of third-class actresses — 
on the topmost wave of success for a brief period — had 
adorned and arrayed, but it seemed to the young girl 
the very acme of elegance. A carriage full of bouquets 
had been brought in, and as she read the cards attached 
to them, and breathed their perfume, Bonne-Marie’s 
heart beat with a more exalted triumph than this apart- 
ment had ever before witnessed. 

“ I am earning my bread honorably,” she said to 
herself. 

A strong wind from the southeast blew against her 
imperfectly closed window; the curtains swelled out 
like a sail. She opened it, leaned out and looked up 
at the sky, over which black clouds were stormily 
drifting. 

“How high the sea must be to-night at Omonville,” 
thought Bonne-Marie. 

She closed the windows, and was soon sound asleep 
after her day of fatigue and excitement. 

That very night Jean Baptiste, who had grown indif- 
ferent and careless, was nearly lost — he and his boat 
together — on the Cogue, the most dangerous of all the 
huge rocks on this perilous shore — and if he saved 
himself, it was simply that his instinct of self-preserva- 
tion was stronger than his love of life. 


108 


LUCIANE. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“LUCIANE 

I N another week Bonne-Marie had totally conquered 
her Normand accent. Bonne-Marie could use a fan 
and answered to her new name Luciane, a name chosen 
by Clotilde. Bonne-Marie was no longer embarrassed 
by her trailing flounces. In a word, the young country 
girl was transformed into a Parisian. 

Where had she learned to receive all this homage in 
so calm and dignified a manner ? How did she know 
what replies to make to these commonplace sentimen- 
talities. She unfolded her music and looked over it at 
the public while the prelude was played, with as much 
composure as if she had done it for years. 

She must have been born for this r61e, for she 
assumed it with such ease, that even Clotilde was 
astonished and had some difficulty in believing that 
their meeting on the Champs - Elys^es was but little 
more than a month previous. 

Bonne-Marie had learned many things, without 
knowing^ how, like water filtering through a porous 
stone. She had acquired a knowledge of the immor- 
ality of the world in which she lived. She understood 
the puerile hatreds, the ferocious jealousy — the venality 
of all and everything — the absolute selfishness and 


LUCIANE. 109 

vanity of those about her, and she no longer cared to 
know Clotilde’s friends. 

She even suspected that Clotilde herself had not 
escaped the odious leprosy, and that poor and honest 
friends would stand small chance of being admitted to 
her august presence, but she loved Clotilde and she 
wished to continue to love her. She was grateful 
for the battle Clotilde had fought in her behalf, and 
brought to a successful termination — a battle in which 
she, standing alone, would have been hopelessly defeated 
and put to flight. It was to Clotilde that she owed the 
applause that nightly deafened her — the very carpet in 
her bed-room was due to her friend’s generosity — as 
well as the bouquets and compliments. So many favors 
demanded a vast amount of gratitude in return, and so 
Bonne-Marie deliberately closed her eyes and covered 
them with her hands. 

Did she think of the past? Yes, often. When in 
the evening she was dressing for a concert — as she 
caught the gleam of the light on her pearly skin, as she 
loosened the mass of her pale-brown hair and put it up 
in a fashion that displayed her pure brow and delicate 
ears, she remembered the small linen caps which in 
former days covered these shining braids ; she recalled 
her woolen bodice, the chemise of unbleached ‘ linen she 
then wore, and smiled at her image in the glass with a , 
proud and happy smile. That which raised Bonne- 
Marie higher than all in her own estimation, was the 
feeling that it was impossible for her to wander from 


110 


LUCI ANE. 


the straight and narrow path she had marked out for 
herself. 

“I will owe my fortune to myself — to my own 
merits,” she said, haughtily. 

Conscious of her own innocence and purit}", the girl 
therefore carried her head high, and never dreamed that 
she could be suspected. Why should she be? Her 
life was as transparent as a crystal carafe. Study and 
rehearsals absorbed her days, and if by chance a leism-e 
hour came, she spent it at Clotilde’s, or in driving with 
her in the Bois. 

The young girl’s life was therefore a peaceful one, 
troubled only by a regret for her dead father, or a pang 
when she thought of the living Jean Baptiste who loved 
her so much, and who was alone and sad, so many miles 
away. 

Another month had elapsed. Mademoiselle Bonne- 
Marie, or Luciane, as she was called, had renewed and 
enlarged her repertoire. Under the advice of her 
friend, she appeared always in white — always with 
jasmine or anemones in her hair, or some small pure 
flowers which suggested orange blossoms — and this 
virginal apparition was hailed each night with long and 
repeated bravas. In the intervals between her ballads. 
Mademoiselle Luciane received the homage of the men 
around her, and if a brief melancholy weighed down 
her spirits, it was at the sight of these among whom, she 
said to herself, was not one single man whom she could 
love. 


L U C I A N E . 


Ill 


“ Not one whom I would marry ! ” she added. 

She contemplated these admirers in succession ; those 
who were at her own feet and those who were at the 
feet of all the other women. Their whiskers curled on 
hot irons, their moustaches waxed to a fine point, their 
huge collars and cut-open vests, their hair parted in the 
middle, all struck her as simply ridiculous, and their 
manners as repulsive. 

And was this the world of which she had dreamed ? 
Not so! The traveller whom she was to have met on 
the sea beach at sunset, had little in common with 
this vulgar herd. 

Were there no men in Paris, simpler, more natural, 
and truer than these? She remembered that on hei 
first arrival in Paris she had often met men with hand- 
some, grave faces, stately in form and walk — men 
whose eyes expressed an admiration which was too 
respectful to bring a blush to her cheek — but none 
such did she see at the Cafd-Concert. 

It began to dawn upon her, therefore, that it was 
not enough to be beautiful, amiable and clever, and 
to earn ones’ bread honestly and industriously. Some- 
thing else was evidently needed. What, then, was 
that something ? 

Bonne-j\Iarie said to herself, sagaciously, that the 
women who were near her were not such as men would 
select for wives ; but she was not of them, though with 
them, and the men knew this quite as well as she did 
herself— and if these men knew it, why should not 


112 


LUCI ANE. 


others as well, and among them the mysterious he 
whom she was to marry ? 

She was sometimes a little discouraged, but as at 
twenty, it is more natural to hope than to fear, this dis- 
couragement quickly passed away, and she continued 
to look forward to the Future with a vague feeling of 
expectation. 


HE comes! 


113 


CHAPTER XV. 

HE comes! 

O NE night, while the orchestra was playing the 
prelude to her first ballad, she ran over the audi- 
ence with indolent eyes, for she had become accustomed 
to the fiery barrier of the foot-lights. She was never 
timid, but sure of herself, liked to examine her public 
and possibly select some especial persons to whom to 
sing. 

Her heart gave a wild tumultuous leap, as she caught 
sight of a young man who was watching her with fixed 
attention. He sat leaning back in his chair against a 
mass of dark green foliage. His large dark eyes were 
full of fire, and totally different from those of the men 
whom she was in the habit of seeing. They were 
neither weary and faded from sleeplessness, nor red- 
dened by dissipation. 

The girl’s lips paled as she met these eyes, but it was 
time for her to sing. She finished the first verse, and 
as she turned the page again, Bonne-Marie glanced once 
more at the stranger. He had listened attentively — 
indeed, he leaned forward and fixed his eyes on her. 

“ He has come ! ” said Bonne-Marie. “ The man I 
am to love has come ! ” 

With what intensity of feeling she sang the words of 
the next couplet and in them addressed the stranger, 
7 


114 


HE comes! 


who had entered thus suddenly into her life, only those 
who know something of the enthusiasm of a pure, 
romantic young girl, can imagine. 

The unknown was carefully dressed and singularly 
handsome; of course therefore, he must be endowed 
with every virtue and every merit. His admiration of 
Bonne-Marie was very evident and unmistakable, and 
yet she fancied she read in his face something more 
than admiration, curiosity and astonishment. 

“ It is astonishing ! ” it seemed to say. ‘‘ She is 
pretty, very pretty. She sings here, and yet she has 
not the face or the air for a casino.” 

The unknown called a waiter, gave him a card and 
slipped something into his hand as the young girl sang 
her third and last verse. When she ended she bowed 
and courtsied gravely to the enthusiastic audience : the 
man she had been looking at, rose to his feet and 
applauded her with his gloved hands. 

With difficulty she guarded herself against thanking 
him with a look, being warned by a secret instinct. 
When she returned to her dressing room she received 
a bouquet of white blossoms, and with it a card. This 
card, which she looked at with some hesitation, was 
inscribed with the name, 

LOUIS MORIN. 

He was not noble, as they say in the country. The 
stranger Avas a mere plebeian, but what did that matter 
if he had true nobility of soul, and good manners ? 

These were Bonne-Marie’s reflections, and she was 


HE comes! 


115 


quite ready to forgive any thing in the man to whom 
she had never yet once spoken. 

The next night Louis Morin was in the same place, 
and when Mademoiselle Luciane curtsied low in reply 
to the applause, he bowed to her. His bow was both 
familiar and respectful, and Mademoiselle Luciane col- 
ored and sang with a less assured voice than usual. 
Later in the evening, a white bouquet precisely like the 
one of the evening before, was handed to her. 

She had received many bouquets, all had pleased her, 
but none had agitated her. This one brought back all 
her past, all her dreams of love and of fame. It was 
precisely thus she had pictured to herself the coming 
of her lover. He would see her some night and he 
would dare to speak to her. Finally, his lips would 
be unsealed and a Heaven on earth would unroll before 
them, through a marriage where love would be Eternal. 
If Louis Morin had known all that was in Bonne- 
Marie’s heart, at that moment, he would probably have 
postponed the presentation that he had eagerly asked. 

But he believed her to be very different from what 
she really was. 

He thought her a mere concert singer like many 
another, having possibly a little more education, but 
who had little reputation or virtue to lose. In his eyes 
Bonne-Marie was a pretty person — extremely charm- 
ing, and with a natural air of distinction, but who was 
quite as capable of devouring a man’s fortune as any 
one of her associates. 

While Bonne-Marie, therefore, was dreaming of a 


116 


HE comes! 


fortune that could not be far distant, Louis Morin made 
more prosaic reflections, of which the result was, that on 
the fourth day, not having received even a glance of 
encouragement, and yet with an intuitive certainty of 
having been remarked, the young man waited outside 
the enclosure until the noisy artists had all departed. 

Ten minutes later, the young girl in black, and with 
close round hat, came out. At first he hardly recog- 
nized her in this costume, but a second look reassured 
him, and he bowed profoundly. 

At the moment when he was about to utter words 
which he could never repair, he saw Bonne-Marie return 
his salutation with timidity and haste. She dropped 
her vail over her face, all glowing with blushes, and 
passed on quickly. He stood in mute surprise, forget- 
ting to put on his hat, and when he came to his senses 
the girl was far away. He turned, and followed her, 
but he was too late. She was out of sight. 

The next day he was near the entrance long before 
it was time for the concert to open. He sat on the 
same bench where Bonne-Marie had sat on that day 
when she saw Clotilde, and waited with his white 
bouquet in his hand. He did not care, in the least, for 
the fact that his bouquet and himself were attracting 
considerable attention and ridicule ; he determined to 
see again, and nearer too, that pretty timid face. 

“ She does not look in the least as if she belonged to 
this profession,'’ he said to himself, “ and I believe there 
is some romance in connection with her ! I intend to 
find it out.” 


THE PAINTER. 


117 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE PAINTER. 

L OUIS MORIN was what the world calls a charm- 
ing fellow. He was amiable, obliging, and yet by no 
means without a goodly share of masculine selfishness. 
He was generally gay, but sometimes morose and sus- 
picious ; but these last qualities were suspected only by 
the few persons who knew him intimately. 

Perhaps, friendly reader, you may have known some 
of these charming fellows who are at the beck and bid- 
ding of their lady friends, always willing to execute a 
commission — obliging to a degree, with a purse whose 
strings slide easily — who always have a word of conso- 
lation and encouragement for the downcast — who, in 
short, are always thoughtful and agreeable in society. 
But in their homes they are changed beings. No 
one must ask them for the smallest assistance — every- 
thing annoys and fatigues them — they have no money 
— the chimney smokes — they growl at their wiveSj^ 
and snap at the servants. You need not call them 
hypocrites, fox they are nothing of the kind. They 
simply have a fixed idea that it is the height of folly 
to take any trouble for one’s family, and prefer to 
reserve all their amiability for the families of other men. 
Ask of kind Heaven, therefore, that these amiable youths 
may never come to regard you as one of themselves. 


118 


THE PAINTER. 


Louis Morin was a painter. After struggling for 
four or five years, and exhibiting at each Salon ex- 
tremely clever pictures, conscientiously painted, but 
whose subjects were rather serious, and productive of 
little attention and no money, he at last struck out on a 
new path, and painted extremely ugly groups of men 
drinking and carousing. These were full of faults, but 
they caught the eye. He did not send these to the 
Salon, for they would have been rejected with holy 
horror and just indignation, but he put them into the 
hands of picture dealers, and found they were quickly 
bought by amateurs, possibly from the same mysterious 
reason which makes people think those frightful bull- 
dog pictures beautiful. 

Each canvas brought him fifty francs, and as he 
painted six monthly, the amount they brought in per 
annum was not to be despised. 

One day, however, it came to pass, that as he was 
looking at his last work, displayed in the window of a 
picture-dealer, he saw a gentleman enter the shop and 
ask to see it. He examined it and finally purchased it, 
and apparently fearing that he should lose the precious 
object, he walked out of the shop with it under his arm. 

Morin, outside in the street, had witnessed the whole 
scene, and stopped the amateur as soon^as he reached 
the sidewalk. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “ but will you tell 
me how much you have just paid for that picture.” 

The man stared, but answered, slowly : 


THE PAINTER. 


119 


“ Five hundred francs.” ^ 

“ With the frame? ” 

The amateur was more amazed than before, but he 
answered, meekly : 

“ Yes, with the frame.” 

“ And it was not dear ! ” replied Morin, enthusiasti- 
cally. “ And now, sir, let me tell you that it is I who 
paint these pictures, and if you want any more I will 
paint them for you at four hundred francs with the 
frame, and you to choose the subject;” and bowing, 
politely, to the amateur, Morin handed him his card, 
and disappeared. 

“ Louis Morin,” read the man. “ Yes, that is the 
signature — and this is his address. I do not under- 
stand. It is some joke I suppose ; but still I think I 
will call there to-morrow.” 

And thus it was that Louis Morin began to make his 
fortune at last, as well as reputation. 

From time to time he said to himself: 

“ I should like to do some work worthy of the Salon ; ” 
but life is very delightful in Paris when one has almost 
as much money as one wants ; and to accomplish any- 
thing of value would have taken six months, while in 
those same six months Morin painted ten little horrors, 
which each brought him in eight hundred francs. 

It is easy, therefore, to see why he sent nothing more 
to the Salon. 

The price of the bouquets of white lilacs was thei e- 
fore not as appalling to him as to many another ; and, 
besides, he had discovered a florist who sold them at a 


120 


THE PAINTER. 


comparatively low price, thanks to the politeness and 
the gayety of the young artist, who one day drew the 
woman’s portrait with ten strokes of his pencil. 

“ Perhaps after all that is the thing I can do best,” 
said Morin, sadly, as he contemplated the full red face 
of this fifty-year old woman, who had no longer the 
smallest pretensions to good looks. “ I see I was born 
to paint portraits.” 

The day he sat waiting for Bonne-Marie, armed 
with his white lilacs, he suddenly had an original idea : 

“ I will ask to paint her portrait ! ” he said to himself. 
“ She can not refuse that, and I will send it to the 
Salon.” 

This new notion delighted the young artist, for in 
every way it could not fail to be profitable to him. 
He did not care to throw away his time, be it under- 
stood, by my readers. 

About eight o’clock Morin saw Bonne-Marie ap- 
proaching in the misty September twilight. She was 
dressed with the same simplicity as on the previous 
evening, and wore in her breast a spray of white lilac. 

As she saw the young artist she started back. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said as he presented his bouquet, 
“ will you not condescend to accept from my own hands 
the flowers which hitherto you have not refused? ” And 
his eyes rested on the spray that trembled on the girl’s 
corsage. 

She silently took the bouquet. 

“ Thanks,” she said in a low voice, as she moved on. 

He stopped her. 


THE PAINTER. 


121 


“ Mademoiselle Luciane, your beauty is as wonderful 
as your talent, and ” 

Bonne-Marie, blushing like a rose, turned her face 
away with a smile. 'To any other person this phrase 
would probably have seemed the merest commonplace, 
but to her, it was the most welcome and sincerest 
praise. 

“ And, therefore,” continued the young artist, there 
should be a portrait painted of you, which, when you 
are no longer young, you will like to look at, and of 
which you may be proud all your life long.” 

Bonne-Marie turned her lovely eyes on Morin ; their 
blue depths were far less serene than usual. 

“ My portrait ? ” she said. “ But who will paint it ? ” 

“ I, Mademoiselle, if you will permit me ! ” 

He was standing, with uncovered head, addressing 
her as if she were liis sovereign. The ambitious young 
girl remembered that she had seen pictures of hand- 
some youths who thus accosted great ladies, and her 
pride was greatly flattered. 

“ I do not know, sir,” she replied. 

“ You would not refuse me. Mademoiselle ! ” he 
cried. This portrait may be the glory of my career, 
and I count upon it to convince the frequenters of the 
next Salon that I am one of the first painters of the 
epoch.” 

Louis Morin was not modest, most assuredly, but 
then he made no pretensions to being so, and this 
fact should induce any one to pardon this egotistical 
outburst. 


122 


THE PAINTER. 


Bonne-Marie did not understand, and she repeated, 
vaguely : 

“ The Salon ! What Salon ? ” 

“The Exhibition of Pictures!” answered Morin, 
somewhat surprised at the ignorance of the charming 
singer. 

“ And when will this Exhibition take place ? ” con- 
tinued Bonne-Marie, timidly. 

“In the Spring,” answered Morin, more and more 
astonished. 

The girl hesitated. 

“Your proposition is most flattering,” she said, at 
last, “but I cannot yet say whether I can accept 
it ” 

“ You would not be hard-hearted enough to refuse, I 
am sure,” exclaimed the Painter. 

The discordant sounds of the orchestra tuning their 
instruments recalled Bonne-Marie to a recollection of 
the duties of the present hour. 

“ I neither refuse nor accept now,” she said, hastily. 
“I must think about it — but, sir — I cannot pay for 
this portrait ” 

“ Pay for the portrait,” interrupted the young man, 
the more eagerly that he had not foreseen this resist- 
ance. “ Did I not say that I relied on this work to 
give me name and fame ? It is I who will be forever 
indebted to you ” 

“We will see,” said Bonne-Marie; and saluting him 
with a gracious bow she glided past him, and disap- 
peared. 


THE PORTRAIT. 


123 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE PORTRAIT. 



HEN Bonne-Marie appeared on the stage a half 


T f hour later, the Painter was in the place where 
she had already learned to look for him. She avoided 
meeting his eyes, but she wore in her hair, or her 
breast, and carried in her hand the white lilacs he had 
given her. 

“My portrait,” murmured Bonne -Marie, when she 
was alone in her own room after midnight. 

“ My portrait at the Exhibition. He counts on that 
to create a reputation for himself. From his air and 
manner one would suppose his reputation already 
made. He has the air of a celebrity. What must I 
say? Shall it be yes — Ah! to have him paint my 
portrait would be bliss indeed I ” 

These thoughts kept her awake until three o’clock, 
and finally Bonne-Marie fell asleep, deciding to go the 
next day and consult Clotilde. 

Just at ten o’clock she rang at her friend’s door, and 
was received by Clotilde in her dressing-gown. The 
relations between them were as friendly as heretofore, 
if not quite as familiar. Clotilde was born to protect 
the weak, and as Bonne-Marie could now take care of 
herself and her wings had grown strong, Clotilde had 


124 


THE PORTRAIT. 


lost some portion of the interest she had formerly taken 
in her. 

Just at this time too Clo tilde was occupied in push- 
ing a young seamstress in whom she had discovered 
positive genius — “ She shall be the fashion ! ” she said 
to herself, and Clotilde generally carried her point. 

“ Tell me,” said Bonne-Marie, — “ Tell me what the 
Salon is — I am so ignorant that I commit a dozen 
blunders every day.” 

“The Salon? Oh! you mean the Exhibition.” 

“Yes, I presume so — but the Exhibition of what ?” 

“Of Painting and Sculpture. Did you not know 
that?” 

“No, not that, nor many another thing beside. Tell 
me more about this Exhibition.” 

Clotilde — not without a good-natured laugh at the 
ignorance of her friend — explained all the mysteries 
of the Salon, and, naturally as she knew many of the 
youthfuTartists, she jeered at the committee. 

“ But why on earth are you so deeply interested in 
the Salon all at once ? ” 

“It is because some one,” answered Bonne -Marie 
with considerable hesitation, “has proposed to paint 
my portrait.” 

“ For the Salon ? How splendid I ” cried Clotilde. 
“ Your portrait at the Exposition I Why, my dear, it 
would make you known throughout Paris in forty- 
eight hours.” 

“ No one ever made such a proposal to me, and yet I 


THE PORTRAIT. 


125 


flatter myself I am no uglier than you ! If I am not 
guilty of an indiscretion, may I ask who it is who 
wishes to paint your portrait ? ” 

Bonne-Marie intensely annoyed at the smile on Clo- 
tilde’s lips answered coldly : “ There is no indiscretion 
in your question — it is Monsieur Louis Morin.” 

“ Louis Morin ? — Don’t know him,” replied Clotilde, 
with an air of supreme indifference. She did not speak 
the truth, however — but what could you expect? No 

artist had asked to paint her portrait for the Salon 

Bonne-Marie did not speak for a moment. 

“ Shall I accept ? ” she said at last in a voice she 
endeavored to render steady. 

Clotilde was quite ashamed of herself by this time. 
Her kindness of heart prompted her to encourage her 
timid friend — besides, should she advise Bonne -Marie 
to refuse, there would be plenty of malicious tongues 
ready to say she did so from envy. 

“Accept, my child! of course you must — it is a 
splendid thing as I told you before. But tell me,” 
added the Diva mischievously, “ is this Louis Morin, — 
the young Prince for whom you have been waiting?” 

Bonne-Marie turned away half angrily, and Clotilde 
was more delighted than before. 

“Never mind!” she cried, “if he be Prince by 
birth, or Prince of artists. The essential is that you 
love him. When will you invite me to the wedding ? ” 
Seeing that she had seriously annoyed her friend, 
Clotilde took her by the arm and drew her towards her. 
“ Is it so serious as this ? ” she asked gently. 


126 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ I know nothing about it,” answered Bonne-Marie, 
— carried away by that need to open her heart which, 
is one of the most charming qualities and also one 
of the greatest follies of youth — “I only know that 
he asked if he might paint my portrait.” 

“ But why did you not say yes, at once ? ” asked 
Clotilde with a smile. 

“You would have accepted then?” 

“ With joy and gratitude, my child! I would in fact, 
have kissed him on both cheeks, and bade him fix the 
hour for the first sitting.” 

“ But where would he paint this portrait ? ” asked 
Bonne-Marie. 

“ Good Heavens, child ! where on earth would he 
paint it, if not in his studio! Would you have him do 
it in a cellar? ” 

“In his own rooms, do you mean? ” 

“A studio does not necessarily mean where your 
artist lives ; it is generally a neutral territory where all 
the world assembles. But bless my heart, where did 
you get all these prudish notions ? ” 

“Are they prudish notions?” asked the girl much 
troubled. 

“ Of course they are — what on earth does it matter, 
if you love him ? ” 

Bonne-Marie plucked up her courage, spurred by the 
dread of betraying her secret. 

“ But I do not love him,” she said firmly. 

“Well then, you will. It amounts to the same 


THE PORTRAIT. 127 

thing, 3^ou will marry him, and I shall dance at your 
wedding ! ” 

“Why can’t you be serious?” said the girl as she 
rose to depart. 

“ Simply, my dear, because I am not cut out of that 
sort of stuff — we are entirely different — I try occa- 
sionally, but it is really no use.” 

“ J’ai quitte ma soeur au berceau,” 

she began, singing Luciane’s ballad with a nasal whine. 

Her friend smiled, she could not help it, and the two 
laughed heartily together. Just as they were separa- 
ting Clotilde exclaimed : 

“ Ah ! I forgot, do you want a dress-maker ? ” 

“ No — why?” 

“But who makes your dresses?” persisted the Diva 
as she held the door half open. 

“ The woman you sent to me.” 

“ Her taste is wretched — try little Airsene, she is a 
genius, as you will soon discover if you employ her.” 

“But,” said Bonne-Marie, “I can’t afford to have 
many dresses — my salary is only six thousand francs 
per annum ! ” 

The door that Clotilde held, clapped to with a bang. 

“I have vexed her,” said Bonne-Marie to herself — 
and yet I had no intention of doing so — I wonder if 
a day could by any chance elapse, without my being 
guilty of some gross piece of stupidity ? ” 

As she entered the house where she resided, the old 


128 


THE PORTRAIT. 


Concierge followed her up the stairs. This worthy 
woman professed the greatest respect for the young 
singer. 

“She never receives a single visit,” she said, “and 
she always comes straight home from the concert.” 

. The emphasis laid upon this fact led the hearer to 
infer that all the lodgers did not pique themselves 
on similar regularity — but this concerns neither my 
readers nor myself. 

“ Mademoiselle ! ” said the Cerberus in petticoats, 
“ some one has been here for you.” 

“For me?” answered Bonne -Marie, in surprise; 
“ you must be mistaken ! ” 

“ Not I ! It was a very good looking young man, 
and he left his card beside.” 

The young girl took the card, which it is unnecessary 
to state bore the name of Louis Morin. 

“ I am very much obliged to you, Madame,” she said 
in considerable confusion. 

“What shall I say to him when he comes again?” 
asked the woman, with a knowing air. 

“ Nothing at all,” answered Bonne-Marie, as she ran 
lightly up the stairs. 

The Concierge looked after her, and then with a 
significant shrug of her shoulders, she returned to her 
room. 

“AVhere had Morin obtained her address?” This 
was the question that now troubled our artless little 
girl. It never occurred to her that nothing was easier 


THE PORTRAIT. 


129 


than to obtain it at the theatre. Bonne -Marie had 
learned many things, but she did not yet know that an 
address can be purchased. She fancied that he had 
taken the less commonplace method, and had followed 
her home, and her heart beat high with joy and grati- 
fied vanity. He loved her then already, and would he 
not love her more when he knew her real value ? 

The girl fully realized that the people by whom she 
was surrounded were not models of virtue, but she 
never supposed that a single human being could doubt 
her honor. 

Piety and Virtue were so entirely the rules that 
governed her life, that she had no idea that any one 
could misjudge her. If Morin loved her it must be 
that he wished to make her his wife, and if he loved 
her merely because he had seen and heard her, what 
would be the surprise of the young painter when he 
discovered that she possessed those domestic virtues 
whose worth she estimated at their full value. 

She fancied herself in his atilier. An atelier, what 
was that ? Sometimes in her walks, she had looked up 
to those high windows far above all the other houses, 
and had asked herself what was done in those cages, 
half darkened by heavy curtains of green serge. The 
words — studio, atelier and painter — told her little 
more than she knew before. 

Was she about to enter one of these mysterious 
retreats I She saw her own image smiling down at her 
from the wall resplendent with youth and beauty ; she 
8 


130 


THE PORTRAIT. 


saw the crowd pressing toward it and she heard her 
name repeated in a hundred different tones of admir- 
ation. 

“ It is too much ! ” cried Bonne-Marie, intoxicated 
with joy ; “ it seems impossible ! ” 

Her door-bell rang gently and recalled her to real 
life. She opened the door. Louis Morin stood before 
her. 

“Forgive my importunity, Mademoiselle,” said the 
young man ; “ I ventured to come back because I was 
told that you were always alone.” 

There was something in this phrase which jarred on 
Bonne Marie. It might have been that it fell coldly on 
the chorus of happy voices to which she had been 
listening, like a false note. 

On seeing the light frown that contracted her deli- 
cate eyebrows, Morin felt he had made a blunder. He 
spoke again therefore with greater caution. 

“The artist. Mademoiselle, comes to ask his model, 
to fix an hour for the first sitting. Had you friends 
with you, I should have deferred my request, partic- 
ularly as you have not given me your promise.” 

“ Come in sir,” said Bonne-Marie, and she preceded 
her guest to her small, faded salon. 

“ Will you say Monday ? ” asked Morin, in a pleading 
voice. 

The girl still hesitated. The painter asking himself 
what argument he could use, had a happy inspiration. 

“ I shall receive you without any ceremony, and one 
or two friends will be with me.” 


THE PORTRAIT. 


131 


As soon as she found that Morin would not be alone 
in his studio, Bonne-Marie made no further objection. 

“Very well,” she said, “I agree to Monday, The 
idea of the portrait makes me possibly a little indis- 
creet, but ” 

“ Indiscreet ! ” interrupted Morin. “ How can it be 
indiscreet, when your beauty and your talent are already 
recognized by the public. But now that we are good 
friends, tell me under what happy sky you were born, 
and where is the casket that has hitherto concealed 
this pearl ? ” 

Bonne -Marie had no reason for concealment or 
disguise ; and yet, as she was about to tell this stranger 
where she was born, she had a vague feeling of terror 
and reluctance. She could not lie, however. Her 
natural shrewdness, born of the common sense of 
Normandy, suggested a way out of this difficulty. 

“ I was born in Normandy,” she said, “ on the sea- 
shore, but you would not be interested in the details.” 

“Ah I” thought Morin, “you do not wish me to 
know whence you come. Just as you please. Have 
you ever sat to any one ? ” he asked aloud. 

“ Never.” 

“We will try and prevent you from finding it too 
wearisome, for it certainly is a very stupid thing to 
do ! ” 

Bonne -Marie’s eyes said very clearly that she should 
not find it wearisome. But the painter could not 
discover anything especially flattering to himself in this 


132 


THE PORTRAIT. 


declaration. The girl rose, and Morin saw himself 
obliged to cut his visit short. 

“ On Monday, then,” he said, “ and shall it be at one 
o’clock!” 

“ Just as you please, sir,” she answered. 

“ You have my address, and we live very near each 
other,” said Louis Morin, and as he reached the door 
he extended his hand to the young girl, who frankly 
placed hers within it. He had intended to raise it to 
his lips, but the cool little hand met his with such utter 
indifference that he was not tempted to commit any 
such folly. He therefore shook it as he would have 
done that of some masculine friend, and departed. 

As he went down the stairs, he said to himself: 
“ That is an odd sort of girl ! One can’t precisely say 
that she is acting a part, and yet — upon my word, I 
don’t understand her.” 


THE STUDIO. 


133 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE STUDIO. 

M onday came. Bonne -Marie took her place on 
the elevated platform, in the soft, subdued light 
of the atelier. With a sheet of music in her hand, she 
stood erect, her black dress — for she still wore mourn- 
ing for her father — fell in soft folds around her 
graceful figure. 

Happy and yet anxious she followed each movement 
of the artist with intense curiosity. He stood before 
her and made strange lines on his canvas. 

Contrary to his words to Bonne -Marie they were 
alone in his studio, for he preferred to make the pre- 
liminary sketch and fix on the pose without the advice 
of friends — advice which generally leaves one out of 
temper and bewildered. 

He spoke to her occasionally as he worked, to prevent 
her from feeling weary. 

Bonne-Marie rarely opened her lips, except to an- 
swer a direct question, and her replies revealed such an 
extraordinary ignorance of the world, that more than 
once the artist dropped his crayon, and looked earnestly 
at his model. 

“ She must be laughing at me ! ” he thought. 

But the pure, serene face of Bonne-Marie excluded 
this idea. No one plays a joke with such a calm angelic 


134 


THE STUDIO. 


look. More puzzled than ever, the young man resumed 
his sketch with renewed energy. 

“ At last ! ” he exclaimed, turning his easel toward 
her. 

She stepped from the platform, and ran to look. 

Was that her portrait! Did those black lines on 
that gray ground represent her image ? 

She stood silent and disappointed. 

Morin laughed. 

*‘You can see nothing!” he said, good-naturedly. 
“Well, never mind, it will come ! Now, will you dine 
with me?” 

Bonne-Marie shook her head. 

“Just as you please ; I make it a rule never to con- 
tradict any one. To-morrow then, at the same hour.” 

“ Will you be at the concert to-night ? ” asked the 
girl, with some hesitation. 

“ Most assuredly,” answered Morin, eagerly. 

“ Farewell, then, for the present,” said Bonne-Marie, 
as she put on her hat. 

“ You are not going away so soon? Can we not talk 
a little?” 

“No, not to-day. When we know each other 
better.” 

“But I know you now very well!” cried Morin, 
snatching her hand, and leading her to the easel again. 
“ Shall I tell you your history ? ” 

She looked at him with widely -opened eyes of 
surprise. 

“ You were brought up in the country,” began the 


THE STUDIO. 


135 


artist, “ you have had a good education — too good for 
the life you were to lead — you were ennuy ee where 
you were, and finally you came to Paris to see if you 
could not make more of your life here than in your 
country. Is not that so ? ” 

“ Yes, it is all true,” murmured the girl, overwhelmed 
at this wonderful clear-sightedness. 

To her the young man’s words had far other mean- 
ing than they seemed to have ; and to him they were 
different still. How were they ever to understand each 
other when the same word bore to each a different 
meaning and value. 

. “ You see I know you, thoroughly ! ” continued 
Morin, “ and you will quickly learn to know me too. I 
am an honest fellow — I like all that tends to make life 

agreeable — I am an honorable man, and 1 love 

you. Mademoiselle Luciane ” 

“No,” answered Bonne-Marie, growing very pale, 

“ do not tell me so — I entreat of you ” 

“ But I must tell you because I wish you to under- 
stand me ” 

“ Say no more,” replied the young girl. “ You are 
painting my portrait now.” 

“ Must I wait until the portrait is finished ? I shall 
have to work at full gallop then ! ” 

“Do not hurry,” answered Bonne-Marie, smiling. 
“ There is ample time.” 

She left the room, trembling from head to foot, happy 
in being loved, but troubled that the young man should 
have spoken thus lightly. 


136 HOW PICTURES ARE MADE 


CHAPTER XIX. 


HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 

HE next morning, some little time before the hour 



I fixed for the sitting, Morin was trying to dismiss 
the friends in his studio. 

“ Look here, boys,” he said, “ Luciane is a very well 
bred person ; you and your smoking caps will frighten 
her out of her wits ! Go away ! ” 

The two youths to whom he addressed these concili- 
atory words were two brother artists, whose studios 
were on the same floor with his own. They talked 
rather than toiled, and spent most of their time loung- 
ing in Morin’s quarters. 

There they complained of the blundering idiots who 
did not understand them, of the poor light in their stu- 
dios, of the Jews of dealers who bought their pictures 
for nothing, and sent them to America where they sold 
for preposterous prices. These complaints disposed of, 
they discussed the secrets of their art. 

One of them called himself “ realist,” and the other 
“colorist.” No one could understand why, as there 
was no obvious difference. They imitated each other 
without intending to do so, and their canvas differed 
only in the signatures. 

One day the' colorist said to his comrade : 


HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 137 

“You remember your sketch, Le Moulin de la Galette. 
It is very good, do you know ? ” 

“ Good ! It is a masterpiece.” 

“ Listen. A wealthy merchant ordered a landscape 
of me to be delivered to-night. Lend me your Moulin ; 
I will sign it, and my patron will give me a hundred 
francs, — a hundred francs, you understand; — and 
to-morrow I will paint you a view from Montmartre. 
Do this and we will have a good supper to-night.” 

The colorist consented ; and a few days later he 
signed the Montmartre picture, and sold it for a hun- 
dred and fifty francs. 

“ Go away my good friends, I beg of you,” repeated 
Morin, in a dismal tone. 

“ But we wish to see your Luciane. You sent us off 
yesterday, and you can’t play the same game two days 
in succession. No, we won’t go until we have seen 
her!” 

“ Then go and make yourselves respectable.” 

“ Respectable I Oh, you mean in our dress ? Is she 
a princess ? ” 

“ Do it for me, boys. How can you make such asses 
of yourselves ? ” 

“We obey ! But swear you will let us in again ? ” 

“ I swear ! Only on condition, however, that you will 
conduct yourselves with propriety while she is here.” 

“ Never fear, we will be as solemn as members of the 
Institute.” 

Bonne-Marie came in a few minutes, and found 


138 HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 


Mopn under arms, his brush in his hand. Upon his 
clear and shining palette, white and ultramarine, 
Naples yellow, ochre, and bitumen were arranged in 
regular drops, in a half-circle. The young girl looked 
curiously at these patches, out of wliich the delicacy of 
her pearly skin, the brilliancy of her dewy eyes, and 
the sweet freshness of her lovely mouth were to be 
reproduced. 

How was this marvellous work to be accomplished ? 
What mysterious power would indicate to the artist 
what atoms of color he should take on the point of his 
pencil, to depict on that dull canvas, a living image of 
the face at which she had so often gazed in her gold- 
framed mirror. 

Morin, dressed in black velvet, wearing a cap of the 
same, looked like one of the painters of the Renaissance, 
and affected the girl — as to be sure he always did — as 
a being of a superior sphere. She felt ignorant, childish 
and weak in his presence, and was afraid to meet his 
eyes. 

“Are you alone?” she said, after greeting him 
hastily. 

Morin divined her meaning. 

“ Yes, alone ! ” he said gayly, with that air of good 
nature which was one of his distinguishing character- 
istics. “But I fear I shall not long enjoy the pleasure 
of a tete-^t^te with you. My studio is rarely empty. 
Had you come five minutes earlier you would have 
found it crowded, and I wager my life that in less than 
five minutes some one will come and disturb us.” 


HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 139 


A bright smile flitted over Bonne-Marie’s face. 

“ Who is likely to come ? ” she asked. 

“Any one and every one — amateurs, picture dealers, 
and friends. My doors are always open ever since 
a very poor jest of one of my comrades ruined my bell.” 

“A poor jest?” repeated the girl. 

She had rashly supposed this vast room, which 
affected her like a church, was no place for jests. Upon 
these high walls were fastened fragments of classic 
friezes, a plaster statue of the Venus of Milo — sketches 
and landscapes — several heads, copies from some of 
the earlier painters — for example, the wonderful Ma- 
donna of Botticelli du Louvre, All these souvenirs of a 
far away Past, all these treasures of art, which people 
vaguely admire without in the least comprehending, 
filled Bonne-Marie with respectful admiration, while at 
the same time they impressed more fully on her mind 
that the Master of this mysterious spot lived in ideal 
regions, far away from dull humanity. 

“ Look ! ” said Morin, pointing with his brush to the 
wall, above the door. 

Bonne-Marie looked and beheld a small doll whose 
limbs, covered with pink kid, dangled helplessly from 
the bell, wherein its head and shoulders had been mer- 
cilessly thrust. 

“ I needed a ladder to take it out,” said Morin with 
a lazy smile, “ and I had none, consequently my atdlier 
is as public as any open square in the city; but if it 
disturbs you ” 


140 HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 


“ Not in the least,” said Bonne-Marie, eagerly. 

The sitting began, and at the end of fifteen minutes, 
the two curious neighbors made the prophesied erup- 
tion into the studio. 

“We beg ten thousand pardons! Do not let us 
disturb you,” they said with a most serious air. 

“Not at all, come in! Mademoiselle Luciane will 
permit me to receive you. What have you there?” 
continued Morin, addressing “ the colorist.” 

“ My last panel — an order, my dear fellow. I am not 
displeased with it on the whole, either ! ” 

“ The colorist ” exhibited a piece of white board 
about as large as his two hands, on which was repre- 
sented in their full size, a jar of blue faience on a 
yellow plate, across which was a silver spoon. 

“ This is the application of my general principle of 
sesthetics.” 

“ Pray explain,” said Bonne-Marie with some curi- 
osity, forgetting her pose and turning her head to look 
at this chef-d' ceuvre, 

“I am only too happy. Mademoiselle, too happy. 
My principle then, although somewhat short, comprises 
the whole of art : 

“ All in all — and all everywhere ! ” 

“I have heard that before, I think,” interrupted 
Morin, with that everlasting smile of his, which verged 
sometimes on the contemptuous. 

“ Probably, but Mademoiselle has not been equally 
fortunate, I imagine. This principle which Eugene 


HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 141 

Delacroix stated, has become my maxim. Without it, 
there can be no true art, for painting is color, and color 
is harmony. Now all pictures that are harmonious, 
are chef-d' oeuvres — do you see ? In Nature, all tints are 
mingled harmoniously. That is why Delacroix put 
blue in his flesh tints, and flesh tints in his skies. And 
you will admit that he was a most wonderful colorist.” 

“ But why have you put that blue spot in the bowl 
of your spoon ? ” asked Morin. 

“ It is a reflection of the sweetmeat jar.” 

“ But your spoon is not at the right angle to catch 
this reflection.” 

“ Ah ! yes, true. Then it is the reflection from the 
sky.” 

“ But where do you get it ? ” 

“ Through my window, of course ! ” 

“ Indeed ! in autumn ? It strikes me that such a sky 
would be singularly blue for the season of the year. 
No, Nature never does any thing of that kind! ” 

“ Then Nature makes a very great mistake, that is all 
I have to say,” answered “ the colorist,” with consider- 
able temper. 

“My dear friend,” interposed the realist, “wait a 
moment. Where should we be if we accused Nature 
of being in the wrong. Nature is never mistaken, be 
sure of that.” 

“ But Delacroix ? ” 

“ Delacroix was an idiot. You know what my opin- 
ion has always been in regard to him — pardon this 


142 HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 


expression, Mademoiselle — I merely intend to say that 
Delacroix has had a very bad effect on his contempo- 
raries. Talk to me of Velasquez and I will listen to 
you.” 

“Velasquez did very well, and had he known my 
principle of art, he would have been the first of paint- 
ers. Now with Rembrandt, it was different. He had 
a dim suspicion of what I mean.” 

“Rembrandt? He could paint with nothing but 
bitumen.” 

“Precisely, he put it on everything and in every- 
thing, and that is where he showed his genius.” 

“ His genius, indeed ! He was a mere realist.” 

They continued to dispute, showering epithets of 
fool and idiot on all those artists who did not happen to 
please them, and finally one of the young men in the 
heat of discussion turned to Bonne-Marie as arbitress. 

“I am very ignorant,” she answered with a deep 
blush, “and I really understand very little of the 
things you say, but it seems to me that the painters of 
whom you speak — Velasquez, Rubens, Titian and 
Rembrandt cannot be without worth, since their works 
are in all museums, and people talk of them to-day, and 
yet they died so long ago.” 

“ Gentlemen, lower your fiags — you are conquered ! ” 
exclaimed Morin in high delight. “ Words of wisdom 
have dropped from Mademoiselle Luciane’s lips.” 

Bonne-Marie colored again, but this time with pleas- 
ure, and turning away she stepped upon the platform 
and resumed her pose. 


HOW PICTURES ARE MADE. 143 


“Look,” said the colorist raising his head, “yonr 
doll is kicking — some one must be pulling the bell. 
Come in ! he shouted with the voice of a stentor utterly 
regardless of the furious look which Morin launched at 
him. 

“ How delightful this atelier is ! ” exclaimed the new 
comer as he pushed the door open. 

“ No one can say you keep your guests waiting, my 
boy. And how is your precious health ? ” 

Morin, extremely surprised at this familiar greeting 
from a man he did not know, bowed with cold polite- 
ness. 

The unknown glanced stealthily at Bonne-Marie, 
who recognized him as a person whom she had noticed 
lately as a regular habitu^ of the concert room where 
she sang. 

She had seen him sit the whole evening with the 
knob of his walking stick between his teeth and a glass 
stuck in one eye. It was the same man, she was sure, 
only his hair at night was reddish, while by day-light 
it took a yellower tint. As to his eyes they were 
unchanged — shining and pale blue — and set very 
much on the outside of his head. Unchanged too was 
his inquiring smile, which displayed large and prominent 
teeth, and seemed to ask at every stupid jest uttered 
by himself, or any one else, “Well ! what do you think 
of that?” 


144 


A NEW ASPIRANT 


CHAPTER XX. 


A NEW ASPIRANT 


HE attractive person who entered the atelier of our 



X friend Morin with such scanty ceremony, was 
not abashed b}" the cool reception vouchsafed to him, 
but gayly continued : 

“ Hope I don’t disturb you, I am sure ! Go on just 
as if I were not here. Is it possible ! Can it be Made- 
moiselle Luciane whom I see before me ? What a happy 
chance it was which brought me this morning into the 
presence of the star of the Champs-Elysees ! I beg 
ten thousand pardons for not recognizing you at once, 

but not expecting to see you, I really Then too,” 

the stranger added, “ your black dress misled me — it 
is amazingly becoming, however; should you wear it 
to-night on the stage, you would have a stupendous 
success.” 

“I am in mourning, sir,” answered Bonne-Marie 
gently. 

“ Ah ! a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, excuse me, 
I beg of you, I am a great simpleton ! ” 

“ He need not have told us that,” muttered the realist 
in the ear of his comrade. 

“ I am a positive simpleton I I ought to have seen at 
once. Mademoiselle, that you were in mourning ” 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 


145 


“ Will you excuse me, sir,” interrupted Morin coldly, 
“ we are at present much occupied. If you would 
kindly return in an hour’s time, you would find me at 
leisure to attend to you, and to learn from you the 

motive which induced you ” 

“ The motive ! ” interrupted the unknown, “ the 
motive which brought me here is no secret — It was my 
sincere admiration for your superb talent,” and the 
crocodile cast an insinuating glance at Bonne-Marie, 
that was intended to show her, and her alone, that he 
was not speaking the truth. “ You remember me, I 
trust, my dear sir, and remember the day that ^laur^sset 
presented us to each other ? ” 

Morin bowed indifferently. 

“ He said to me to-day, ‘ Look here, Mellunard, you 
have a father who is a millionaire,’ — here Mellunard 
glanced again at the girl to see the effect he produced 
— ‘ shall I tell you how to get rid of a small portion of 
his money ? Buy one of Morin’s pictures.’ — Maur^s- 
set’s advice, my dear fellow, is not always as good as 
this ; — consequently I am here.” 

“ Monsieur Maur^sset is most kind to remember me,” 
answered the artist. 

“ Oh ! he knows your talent better than you do your- 
self. I say that, because your modesty prevents you 
from appreciating your talents as you should do. True 
talent is the last to recognize itself ! ” 

Morin, whose best friends never compared him to the 
violet, and who in no way merited this eulogy, asked 


146 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 


% 


himself if Mellunard was not laughing at him. But 
he soon satisfied himself that he was not. Mellunard 
was simply repeating a phrase he had heard somewhere 
recently. 

“You are very flattering,” said the artist, merely 
because, he felt he must say something. 

“ Not at all ! not at all ! But I have come to pur- 
chase a canvas that bears the imprint of your name 
and talent.” 

Morin’s two friends who had listened attentively to 
this conversation now rose and noiselessly withdrew. 

“ At this precise time I have no pictures on hand,” 
he answered so coldly, that Bonne-Marie looked up in 
surprise. 

“ Then you can paint me one — one with trees and 
things you know, like what’s-his-name’s — The man I 
mean who paints mountebanks.” 

“ I never paint mountebanks,” Morin answered as he 
touched his palette with the point of his brush. 

This movement drew Mellunard’s attention. He put 
his glass to his eye. 

“ Oh ! perfect — delicious ! ” he said, showing all his 
teeth. “The living breathing image of Mademoiselle 
Luciane. It looks as if she were about to speak — no 
— to sing rather ! ” and he laughed at his own wit as 
he twisted the silk cord that held his glass. 

Morin by this time utterly out of temper, tried color 
after color without finding one to suit him. He did 
not dare look at Luciane, lest he should discover that 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 147 

the intruder was welcome to her. Was it not possible 
that she had told him to meet her here. 

At this thought he angrily brandished his brush in 
the air, and then, as quick as thought, painted into the 
portrait of Bonne-Marie — which as yet was little more 
than a sketch — the heavy moustache of an Hungarian 
officer. 

“ I like the portrait this way, what do you say ? ” 
asked the painter, turning towards his visitor. 

The young girl, annoyed and disturbed, had relapsed 
into profound silence, and was examining with her eyes 
the more distant objects in the room. As she was at 
some little distance she had not seen what Morin had 
done, nor could she understand the meaning of his 
question. The only thing she really grasped was the 
amazement of the simpleton before her. 

He, not knowing what to make of this bizarre act 
of the young artist, stood with his mouth wide open 
and his eyes fixed. His small head and slender neck 
were protruded from his low-cut collar, which seemed to 
retreat like the waves when the tide is going out — 
while his glass dangled at the end of his stiff and 
immovable forefinger. 

Bonne-Marie, already nervous and unstrung, was 
seized with a wild impulse to laugh. She sank into an 
arm-chair, threw her head back and the atelier rang 
with her clear rippling laughter, which in the end so 
charmed the artist and even Mellunard — its object — 
that they both joined in it. 


'148 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 


“Delicious!” said Mellunard after a few moments, 
“ delicious — but really ” 

“ You see, my dear sir,” began Morin, reassured by 
Bonne-Marie’s laughter, “ I am nervous, as I am apt to 
be, when I am disturbed at my work.” 

“ I beg ten thousand pardons ! I am really mortified 
— but you will paint my picture, will you not ? And 
you will allow me to come occasionally and see how 
it is getting on ? — I trust I may sometimes have the 
very great pleasure of meeting Mademoiselle here 
and ” 

“ And we shall have charming little family parties in 
that way,” muttered Morin, — “suppose we ask the 
concierge to come too, with her mending, and bring 
her cat, and then we might cook a few chestnuts at 
the stove. No, my good sir, I do not work like that. 
I do not paint by the hour I ” 

Mellunard in utter silence received this avalanche of 
words, much as trees bear the blows of the poles that 
knock down their nuts. He merely gathered that 
Morin did not choose to let him see Luciane in his 
studio, and he therefore determined to see her else- 
where. 

“I regret, my dear sir,” he exclaimed, trying to 
effect what is known as a good retreat, “ that you had 
no picture for sale: I would have given a good price — 
say fifteen hundred francs for a landscape.” 

“With mountebanks?” interrupted Morin. 

“ I do not insist on the mountebanks, however I ” 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 149 

“ Nor I either,” said the artist as he gave a finishing 
touch to the moustache on the portrait. 

“ Well then, why ” 

“ Simply,” said the artist, hastily, “ because I do not 
paint pictures to order. Call at the atSlier on my left, 
or the other on my right, they will do anything you 
wish — I can only regret that I have allowed you to 
waste your time.” 

“ Oh ! not at all,” answered Mellunard, naively, “ I 
had nothing else to do.” 

Bonne-Marie had the greatest difficulty in restraining 
another fit of nervous laughter as she met Morin’s 
eyes. This most inopportune guest at last made up 
his mind to depart, and as he went out said with a most 
irresistible smile and bow addressed to Luciane. 

“ I will come in again on some other occasion, as you 
seem ” 

“ Oh ! it is not at all worth while,” answered Morin 
with the most exquisite politeness, “ it is always the 
same way with me.” 

And closing his door on this patron of the fine arts, 
the young painter pushed the bolt and went back to 
his model. 

Bonne -Marie now laughed heartily and without 
restraint. She laughed until the tears stood in her 
eyes, and Morin was singularly moved by this gayety 
— which was that of a pure and innocent child. 

“ It is good to see you laugh,” he said as he took his 
seat on the edge of the platform. “ You are like a 
happy child who goes to Guignol for the first time ! ” 


150 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 


Guignol appeared to the young girl so happy a com- 
parison in connection with the man who had just gone 
out that she laughed again. Finally she succeeded in 
checking herself, somewhat ashamed of such incon- 
siderate mirth in the presence of a stranger, an artist 
and a man of celebrity. 

“But what did you do to my portrait to astonish 
that gentleman to such a degree ? ” she asked. 

“ I will show you,” he answered with a smile. 

She started forward, but he detained her. 

“ There is plenty of time ! ” he said, “ sit still a few 
moments. It is so delicious to have gotten rid of that 
vapid fool — our laugh together has made us old 
friends ! ” 

“But you have not laughed, or so little that it 
amounts to nothing.” 

“ My mirth has been more silent than yours, possi- 
bly, but it was none the less sincere for all that. But 
tell me, are we not friends ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” answered the young girl with some 
hesitation. 

It was growing late and the atSlier was invaded by 
that peculiar gray light which comes earlier in the 
day to studios than to other rooms, because of their 
north light. In this twilight the room looked larger 
and the corners were vague and afar off. The girl 
shivered and rose hastily. 

“ But it is pleasant here,” said Morin, again detain- 
ing her. 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 


151 


“ Yes, it is pleasant, but I must go, it is growing 
late.” 

“Luciane,” said the young man, taking her hand, 
“ stay, for I love you ! ” 

Bonne-Marie’s heart beat wildly under the folds of 
her black dress — she waited, willing to hear more. 

“I love you,” repeated Morin, “will you not love 
me a little in return ? ” 

“ I do not know,” she replied, guarded by the double 
prudence of a woman and a native of Normandy. 

“ Will you try ? ” asked the young man, possessing 
himself of her other hand. 

“ When we know each other better,” answered the 
girl, disengaging herself, and in the twinkling of an 
eye putting on her wrap and hat. 

“ Au revoir ! ” she said to Morin, extending her hand 
as she stood on the threshold. 

“Will you stay a while to-morrow?” he answered, 
awakening from his dream. 

“ No,” she said, shaking her head, smilingly. 

She said no, but Morin thought she meant yes. 
Why was she so different from all the other women 
of her class whom he had known, none of whom would 
have refused to linger for another hour in the soft 
obscurity of this dusky studio. One and all would 
have begun by refusing, and then they would have 
remained. 

The next day it rained — the sad cold light streamed 
in at the liigh window of the studio, bringing with it a 


152 


A NEW ASPIRANT. 


sensation of cold. Morin’s two neighbors were as usual 
launched on an interminable discussion. 

The artist thought of going to call on the young girl, 
but a certain feeling restrained him. He was unwilling 
to allow her to suppose that he felt the necessity of 
seeing her every day. As the rain continued for nearly 
a week, the sittings seemed to have come to an untimely 
end. The painter therefore made up his mind one 
evening to go to the concert-room of the Caf4. 


WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS. 153 


CHAPTER XXL 

WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS. 
LREADY the dead leaves lay in heaps under the 



Jl\. Box and Privet hedges, where they had been 
whirled by the Autumnal gusts, and every morning a 
squad of men with brooms had the greatest difficulty 
in clearing the Champs-Elysees. Winter was near at 
hand, and the gay room in the open air — so cool and 
fresh with the milky globes which seemed to surround 
it like the- setting of a jewel — must be abandoned. 
Some hall must be discovered in the centre of Paris, 
where the fumes of tobacco deadened the air already 
exhausted by the innumerable gas-burners. This had 
been under due discussion during the day, and Bonne- 
Marie had felt her heart fail her at the prospect. 

To her, after the free out-of-door life to which she 
had been accustomed, the close atmosphere of the 
stifling rooms was a veritable penance. Once, when 
she had with difficulty obtained an hour of freedom, she 
had gone with Clotilde to the theatre, and was more 
bewildered and uncomfortable than pleased, which 
charmed her friend, who called her from that time 
“ the pretty savage.” 

The evening that Morin decided to go to the Cafe, 
the concert troupe was in a great state of excitement. 


154 WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS. 


They had just been informed that the Manager had 
taken one of the finest halls in Paris, and looked 
forward to a splendid season. At the end of Septem- 
ber, that is, almost at once — they would emigrate, 
and a new rSpertoire would enchant their old public, 
while the old one would charm the ears of an audience 
who would not fail to fill the room, night after night. 

A very important position was given to Made- 
moiselle Luciane, in the new arrangement, Mauressct 
having wisely said to himself: 

“ I pay her an enormous salary, and must get my 
money back, at least ! ” 

This was not altogether agreeable to other mem- 
bers of the troupe, and while Bonne-Marie naturally 
accepted with joy every opportunity of appearing on 
the stage and being welcomed with applause, the other 
singers, seeing themselves cast into the shade, amused 
themselves in grumbling at the Manager, and in saying 
very hateful things of this comparatively new member 
of their troupe. 

Clotilde, who at first had defended her, ended by 
going over to the camp of the enemy, for that morning 
INIaurdsset, without notifying her or any one else, had 
placed Luciane’s name in large letters at the top of the 
placard. 

There was a grand revolution ; the Manager bore the 
first assault with unflinching courage ; he Avas accus- 
tomed to such scenes, for he had seen plenty of them 
in his troubled career. 


WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS. 155 


Evening came ; Bonne-Marie, perfectly unsuspicious 
and not having seen the placard, found herself greeted 
by a storm of epigrams, some as coarse as they were 
cutting. Her new-born Parisian acuteness was not as 
yet sufficiently developed to enable her to grasp the 
full meaning of all she heard. She understood half, 
however, and guessed the rest. 

Calm and dignified, pale with indignation and burn- 
ing contempt, she submitted quietly to all this sarcasm, 
and feigned not to understand it. Her coldness and 
self-possession piqued her companions, and the women 
sought to engage their adorers in the contest ; but the 
men were too wise to commit themselves, for Luciane 
was very pretty, and it was not worth while to quarrel 
with her, for who could say what might happen ! 

In the midst of all this, Mellunard came in ; if he 
had been desirous of knowing Bonne-Marie, it was 
because Clotilde herself had inspired him with the 
desire. Clotilde was one of those women, of which 
there are many, who never can keep anything to them- 
selves. Mellunard, who had recently become her best 
and most intimate friend, had heard her utter the most 
extravagant eulogiums on Mademoiselle Luciane ; the 
result of which was, that Luciane, whom he hardly 
knew by sight, seemed to him more attractive than 
Clotilde herself; and then there was still another 
reason for this sudden change — Clotilde was horribly 
extravagant, while Luciane seemed very quiet and 
inclined to be economical. Now Mellunard, although 


156 WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS. 

rich, was a young man who kept a very sharp lookout 
for his own interests. 

When Morin entered the concert-hall, Clotilde was 
singing ; Mellunard, leaning on a rickety console-table, 
was pouring gallant speeches into Bonne-Marie’s ears, 
who hardly heard them. Some subtile association had 
carried her back to Omonville, and she was thinking of 
her long solitary walks on the sea-shore — of all her 
ambitious dreams and hopes, and of him who had 
suddenly appeared on her horizon, and who opened 
the pathway to her of Fortune and Happiness. 

Her dream was not yet realized. Morin loved her, 
but did he love her enough to make her forget all the 
bitternesses of life. 

Tired of the monotonous flow of Mellunard’s words, 
she turned toward him to answer with some jesting 
remark that would show him that this was the case, 
when as she lifted her eyes, she saw Morin on the 
threshold. The young girl’s heart beat more quickly 
with an emotion that almost overpowered her with the 
superstition natural to those in love, and also to many 
who are not, she regarded this sudden apparition of 
this young man a direct reply of Providence to the 
questions that she had just been asking herself. “Yes, 
she would be happy yet ! ” 

The expression of joy on that fair face ought to have 
softened a very stern judge, but Clotilde, who at that 
moment appeared by the other door, was no judge 
whatever. Seeing that Mellunard was leaning over 
her friend in an attitude of adoration, and catching a 


WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS. 157 

glimpse of the look of joy in the girl’s eyes, she believed 
herself betrayed. 

Folding her beautiful arms over her goddess-like 
bust, she exclaimed : 

“ Upon my word, this is delightful ! It is not enough 
it seems, to take my place on the placard, but you 
must also take my friends ! ” 

The other persons who were present, turned around, 
delighted to see a nice little quarrel well started 
between the two rival stars. They had been in a per- 
petual state of wonder that they had so long lived in 
harmony. 

“Your friends?” replied Bonne-Marie, vexed at 
hearing herself addressed with such scanty ceremony 
in the presence of Morin. “Your friends? I was not 
aware that you knew this gentleman.” 

“You are too virtuous, perhaps, to know such 
things,” answered Clotilde, “ but all your pretence of 
excessive virtue deceives no one — no one at all, do 
you understand ? ” 

“ When we begin to talk of virtue,” answered Bonne- 
Marie coldly, “ I have nothing more to say. Yours 
brings you in an income, while mine places me in debt, 
and there is little family likeness in such virtues ! ” 

A shout of laughter was heard on all sides. 

“ Luciane ! ” cried the call-boy, “ Luciane, you are 
wanted ! ” 

Bonne-Marie rose hastily, but she had the whole 
length of the foyer to pass, and she could not avoid 
hearing her ex-friend’s last insult. 


158 WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS. 


“ When a woman is virtuous, she prefers to remain 
in the country than to make her appearance as a singer 
in a casino — that is my opinion, and I say only what 
every one else thinks.” 

Thereupon Clotilde made a scene with Mellunard, 
who with a hang-dog expression and dangling eye-glass, 
wished himself any where but where he was. 

Morin heard all this in silence. Clotilde’s friendship 
was not a brevet of virtue for Bonne-Marie, but her 
hatred was even less so. Besides, she insinuated that 
she had known for a long time much that she did not 
choose to say. 

These ambiguous words, however, did not pain the 
young man. 

He had never regarded Luciane as a vestal ; although 
she seemed to him better educated, more intelligent and 
infinitely more original than any of the other women 
of her class. What did it matter to him whether she 
had had, or had not had any adventures ? He was not 
in search of a wife ! After this apostrophe of Clotilde’s 
he went out calmly and posted himself at the door. 

Bonne-Marie, after singing, disappeared among the 
crowd of visitors in the foyer and hurried away to 
change her dress. She dreaded to meet Morin while 
she was smarting under the words she had heard. 
“Would he believe them?” she asked herself. How 
could she exculpate herself? Anxious, unhappy, cut 
to the heart, sick to death of all this petty jealousy 
and discord, she asked for but one thing — solitude — 
where she might hope to recover her lost serenity. 


QUAKRELS AND INSULTS. 


159 


CHAPTER XXII. 

QUARRELS AND INSULTS. 

W HEN she was again dressed in her simple black 
walking costume she threw a vail over her hat, 
and passed through the door devoted to the use of the 
concert troupe. As she, with lowered head, caring 
only to avoid every eye, passed hurriedly along, she 
felt her hand seized and drawn through an arm, and 
turning hastily to see who dared treat her with so little 
ceremony, she saw Morin. She made no objection, 
but let him do as he would. 

They walked on for some minutes in profound 
silence. Morin held Bonne-Marie’s arm pressed against 
his heart, and she felt herself almost borne along by 
his masterful strength. Her heart was very full — it 
was so delicious to have a master, and to feel that she 
was no longer alone in the world — a world so full of 
disappointments, jealousies and angry suspicions. 

“ What was Mellunard saying to you ? suddenly 
asked the young painter. 

In the last half hour his love for Bonne-Marie had 
taken a strong start. Before, it had been a momentary 
caprice ; but since he had heard her insulted, it had 
developed into a passion, and he had become suddenly 
jealous — not of a Past, in wliich he counted for 


160 QUARRELS AND INSULTS. 


nothing, but of a Present where he wished to reign and 
conquer. 

“ I do not know what he said some foolish thing 
or another,” answered Bonne-Marie, “ But Clotilde ! 
Did you hear Clotilde? I thought she loved me!” 
and Bonne-Marie’s heart swelled to bursting while the 
tears stood in her eyes. 

“Do women ever love each other?” asked Morin 
philosophically, — “ that idea is a delusion and a snare.” 

“ But I love her very dearly,” said Bonne-Marie, 
with a sob. 

“ You do a very unwise thing, then.” 

“But she has been very kind to me.” 

“Not for your own sake entirely, you may wager 
your life. When she has done you a kindness, it was 
for the purpose of doing harm to some one else.” 

“Do you really think so?” asked Bonne-Marie, 
aghast. 

“I know it! She was afraid an old rival of 
hers would be engaged by Mauresset, and managed 
matters in such a way that you took the place which 
would otherwise have been hers.” 

“ How can you possibly know this? ” asked the young 
girl. 

Morin had the best reasons in the world for not 
answering this question, as he wished to stand high 
in Bonne-Marie’s good graces. He could not lie alto- 
gether either, therefore he answered : 

“ One of her most intimate friends told me so. I am 


QUARRELS AKD INSULTS. 


161 


as certain of it as if it were myself whom Clotilde had 
told.” 

Bonne-Marie walked along with her eyes riveted on 
the pavement. It was raining a little — a very little — 
one of those gentle autumnal showers which are as brief 
and soft as those of the spring, and do not demand an 
umbrella. The atmosphere was exquisitely fresh. 

“ And this is friendship ! ” thought the girl, half 
audibly. 

“No,” answered Morin, “this is not friendship; it is 
only its lying semblance I ” 

Bonne-Marie involuntarily thought of Jean Baptiste, 
who had for her a vastly different friendship from that 
of Clotilde ; but his friendship, again, was something 
more ; — it was love. Morin, too, seemed to love her, 
and his love was sweet and consoling. She did not 
speak. 

“ This Mellunard is an absolute idiot,” said Morin, 
who wished to bring affairs to a crisis. 

“ Yes, and how foolish he looked when he saw Clo- 
tilde come in. I recognize in him only one good 
quality.” 

“ Mellunard ! a good quality ? Pray tell me what it 
is, for I confess I have yet failed to discover that he 
has one.” 

“ That of having had sense enough to wish to buy 
one of your pictures ! ” 

Morin laughed heartily. 

“ But it was not for that he came, you know very 
well. It was on your account ! ” lo 


162 QUARRELS AND INSULTS. 


Bonne-Marie lifted her surprised and innocent eyes 
, to his. 

“ He is the most tiresome person in the world,” she 
said, with a sigh. “ But tell me, are you so rich that 
you could refuse to sell him a picture ? ” 

“I am not at all rich — I manage to live from day to 
day, that is all! But when I have -finished your 
portrait, it will be quite another thing.” 

“ Then do you mean that I can be of use to you? ” 

Morin smiled and pressed his companion’s arm more 
closely to his heart. 

“I count on you to make my fortune,” he answered. 
“We will go down to posterity together.” 

“ He is not rich,” thought Bonne-Marie, “ and yet 
he refused fifteen hundred francs-because I was there. 
How disinterested ! ” 

“Tell me,” urged Morin, “shall we go down to 
posterity together ? ” 

“If you desire it!” answered the girl softly, in 
great agitation, troubled by the sense she gave to these 
words. 

They walked slowly on for another square. 

“ I love you, Luciane,” resumed the painter suddenly. 
“I love you to such a degree that I am ready to 
commit any absurdity for your sake. When that idiot 
was leaning over you and whispering in your ear, I was 
inclined to knock him down. You do not love Mellu- 
nard then ? ” 

“ Love him ? What folly ! ” 


QUARRELS AND INSULTS. 163 


“ The other day, when he came to my studio in such 
an odd way, I thought you allowed it — or even 
desired it.” 

Bonne-Marie opened her lips hastily. 

“It is jealousy, I know,” he continued; “there is 
nothing, too, more utterly foolish than jealousy, and 
when I am under the influence of that passion, I can 
be weaker and more idiotic than Mellunard ! ” 

The girl smiled faintly. Their eyes met. They 
walked more slowly through the deserted streets he 
had especially selected. The rain was falling faster, 
and the badly lighted streets were nearly deserted, and 
the hour too was growing late. Morin determined to 
avail himself of this opportunity. 

“You know,” he said, “how pleasant it is in my 
studio ; but you cannot know how sweet it is for me 
to hear the rustle of a woman’s dress, to feel her arms 
on the back of my chair, and know she is looking 
at my work with me. Imagine the joy of having my 
pretty model before my eyes at all hours, times, and 
seasons — to paint when I was in the humor — when I 
felt the inspiration — and not when the hands of the 
clock point to two o’clock, or only from two to four. 
Think what it would be, Luciane, to hear you sing for 
me alone ” 

“My name is not Luciane,” said the young girl 
suddenly; “I am called Bonne-Marie.” 

“ Bonne-Marie ! That is infinitely prettier,” cried 
Morin; “it is poetical and fantastic. Whence comes 
this charming name ? ” 


164 QUARRELS AND INSULTS. 


“It is a name common at La Hague.” 

Morin did not even know where La Hague was, and 
she explained it to him. Almost unconscious that she 
was doing so, the young singer described her wild, 
strange country, and then went on to speak of herself, 
of her childhood, and of all her youthful dreams. A 
strange longing to tell him all about herself, carried 
her away. It seemed as if she had determined before 
Morin uttered the irrevocable words, that he should 
know all that was in her power to tell him in regard to 
herself. But he had no corresponding desire. He 
loved her in the Present only, and cared little for 
anything else. But he listened nevertheless in delight- 
ed surprise at so much poetry in this caf^-singer, and 
also by the elevated sentiments she expressed. 

“ What a charming companion I should have, and 
what a delicious winter we might pass ! ” 

By this time, they had reached Bonne-Marie’s door. 
She stood still, and waited for words that came not. 
He moved forward to go in with her. 

“No, no,” she said. 

“You are right,” mused Morin; “it is never wise to 
incur the risk of being uselessly compromised. To- 
morrow then, I shall expect you at the studio.” 

“To-morrow — yes, to-morrow,” said Bonne-Marie,' 
gently. 

He extended his hand; she laid her own slender 
fingers lightly within it, and he held them silently and 
closely. 


QUARRELS AND INSULTS. 165 


Bonne-Marie was also silent. The girl was intensely 
happy. The happiness so long dreamed of was now 
close at hand. The happiness of being beloved by a 
man of whom she could be proud ; whose manners and 
words were elegant and refined ; whose mind was culti- 
vated, and whose name was destined to be famous. 

She dreamed of a charming home, surrounded by 
flowers and sculptures ; velvety carpets and ample 
curtains. Morin had drawn her toward him. The 
street was empty, and the rain was falling quietly and 
persistently. He leaned toward her and pressed a kiss 
on her hair, all shining with tiny drops of rain. 

She submitted, for this fleeting caress was very dear 
and precious, but she summoned all her strength. 

“ To-morrow ! ” she repeated. 

She pushed open the door, which was never bolted 
until eleven, and flew up to her room on the fourth 
floor. As soon as she went in she opened the window 
and looked out. The shadow of Louis Morin was 
clearly defined on the shining pavement. Indifferent 
to the weather, he walked off with a light step, as if he 
was the happiest of men, without a care in the world. 

“ He loves me ! he loves me ! and,” stdded Bonne- 
Marie, “I love him with my whole heart.” And the 
girl was half frightened as she realized how this love 
was gaining possession of her whole nature. 

She closed her window and lighted her candle, and 
seated in a low chair she meditated long and earnestly. 

The cracking of the glass at the base of the burned 


166 


QUARRELS AND INSULTS. 


out candle aroused her, hours later, for time had seemed 
very short to her in the wakening dreams in which she 
had been absorbed. 

“ No,” she murmured as she rose with a shiver from 
her chair, “it is not remorse for a woman to love as I 
love him — not at least if it be her husband whom she 
adores.” 

She was soon asleep — a light sleep — during which 
her soul seemed to preserve a consciousness of her 
profound happiness. 


HOPES. 


167 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOPES. 

T he next day was as balmy as if it were April. 

Over the sky — of the clearest possible blue — 
drifted white and fleecy clouds. Occasionally came a 
dark gray mass. The clouds moved hurriedl}^ along, 
driven towards the northeast by the clear fresh wind. 
Not so quickly, however, as to spare the Parisians 
more than one brief shower, speedily followed, how- 
ever, by radiant sunshine. 

Bonne -Marie rose early, and having arranged all 
about her with that care and order which were a part of 
her character, occupied herself with her toilette. Her 
simple black dress did not admit of any very great 
variety of combinations, but the plain linen collar, the 
knots of black ribbon at throat and wrist, the black 
velvet which held the braids of her magnificent hair, 
one and all received the most careful attention. At 
last, dressed and ready long before the appointed hour, 
she thought of her breakfast. A bit of bread, and a 
glass of milk were all she could swallow, and this was 
a concession to established customs rather than because 
she wanted anything. A little later than the time 
agreed upon — for in her dread lest she should arrive 
too soon, she went to the other extreme and was late — 


168 


HOPES. 


Bonne - Marie entered the atSlier, Morin was also 
dressed with care and attention. His most becoming 
cravat was negligently knotted, and gorgeous bouquets 
of superb autumnal flowers blazed in his studio. 

He was much less talkative than usual; it is true 
the love he felt for the fair singer was very different 
from that which she felt for him, nevertheless, the 
young man was more interested than he had been for 
years. The simple confidences made by Bonne-Marie 
the evening before, had shown him a nature far above 
the common -place ; he saw now that this girl was 
unlike any other woman he had ever known — but 
this conviction did not give him any idea of what 
she really was — an honest creature led away by ambi- 
tion, and placed in an unhealthy atmosphere whose 
baseness she in no degree suspected. 

When she entered the room, Bonne-Marie laid aside 
her hat, and at once ascended the platform and took 
her seat. 

Morin made no objection, a little time was necessary 
to both that they might control their emotions some- 
what. For fifteen minutes the young man painted 
assiduously and Bonne -Marie bore his eyes — which 
went from her face to the canvas and from the canvas 
back to her face — in the most unflinching manner and 
unbroken silence. 

“ And your friends ? ” she asked at last, feeling that 
the painter’s attention was gradually fixing itself on 
her rather than on the picture he was painting. 


HOPES. 


169 


“ They are not coming to-day ! Are we not happy 
here alone ? ” 

Silence again fell on the atSlier, After a little while 
Morin made a sign to Bonne-Marie. 

“ Come and look,” he said. 

The young girl obeyed and went to the easel. Yes, 
Morin had spoken well, when he said that this portrait 
would be his chef-d" oeuvre. Agitation and excitement 
had imparted to the portrait that dash of ideality 
which up to that time it had lacked. 

Luciane — for it was not Bonne-Marie alone, it was 
the singer transfigured by the joy of success — Luciane 
lived on this canvas ; her deep blue eyes seemed to be 
looking into space from which she drew the inspiration 
with which she sang; her fair skin with its pearly 
lights, her masses of blonde hair and magnificent arms 
were all there. It was Bonne-Marie certainly, but it 
was Bonne-Marie as she would be in a few years if she 
lost nothing of her purity, and if, instead of returning 
to her village home, she continued to elevate herself 
toward the ideal of art. 

“ It is beautiful ! ” said the young girl softly, breath- 
less before this image of herself which she hardly 
dared call by her own name. 

“You are satisfied with it?” asked the painter 
approaching her very closely. 

She looked at him with her whole soul in her eyes. 

“I will do better than that,” resumed Morin, “I 
will paint another portrait of you,” he added as he 
led Bonne-Marie towards the small sofa. 


170 


HOPES. 


She seated herself and he held her hand. After a 
few moments, while the young girl heard her heart 
beat so tumultuously that it seemed to her that Morin 
must hear it also, she without lifting her eyes, said 
to him : 

“ Have you a mother ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Morin, briefly. One of his first 
rules in life was, never to speak of his family to his 
studio acquaintances — either men or women. The 
selfish fellow had a certain affection for his old home 
and fireside, although he never went near it. But the 
small provincial town where his mother and sisters 
vegetated was at such a distance from this all-absorb- 
ing Paris — each year he talked of going to them in 
the heat of summer. 

“ I am motherless,” said Bonne-Marie softly. 

“ You are beautiful ! ” answered Morin hardly hear- 
ing what she said ; “ you love me, and I am certain 
that we shall be the happiest people in the world.” 

Love and happiness were the words she constantly 
heard, but why did he say nothing of marriage? 
The girl felt sick at heart. It seemed to her she was 
choking; she turned her plaintive eyes toward the 
artist ; he misunderstood their expression. 

“You have suffered, my poor child!” he said as he 
slipped his arm around her waist. 

Bonne-Marie made no resistance — indeed so entirely 
was she absorbed in listening for the words she longed 
to hear, that she hardly knew it. 

“ Men are selfish and men are wicked,” continued 


HOPES. 


171 


the young artist, “but my love has neither of these 
qualities ; mine will never wound you, and there is 
nothing of the tyrant in my nature, as you will soon 
see ! ” 

Bonne-Marie did not speak. One by one all the fair 
hopes that had grown and blossomed in the last few 
weeks, fell like the dead leaves which the autumnal 
wind blew against the window from the garden — the 
garden so fresh and gay, so short a time before — and 
now so cold and mournful, under the shadow of gray 
clouds which had obscured the sun. 

Morin became, all at once, very anxious. Before pos- 
sessing himself further of the girl’s affections he deter- 
mined to ascertain all the particulars of her fall ; — the 
fall from virtue which of course must have been the 
reason of her coming to Paris. Was it some vulgar 
rustic who had betrayed her, or some man like himself 
who had met her on the Normandy sands? 

“He deserted you, then?” he asked the girl, in a 
soothing, tender voice. 

“ Who,” she asked, with a start of pain and surprise, 
for she felt a vague presentiment of evil. 

“He whom you loved — before you came here I 
mean.” 

“ I never loved any one,” she answered, rising hastily 
from her seat — “no one — ah! no one!” she repeated, 
with a look of anguish directed toward the sky, where 
the swift clouds, banking up, reminded her of the 
sudden tempests of her own land. 


172 


HOPES. 


“ So much the better, then I ” resumed Morin, as he 
took her hand to draw her back to her seat at his side. 

He thought she merely meant to say that she had 
learned when it was too late that she had never really 
loved the man for whose sake she had left her village. 

“You will love all the better now, my dearest, for 
you do love me, do you not?” 

“Yes, I love you,” she answered, her tender eyes full 
of pained surprise, as she looked at him ; “ I love you 
far more than I wish I did ! ” 

“ Why this sadness, Lucian e ? Is not life full of 
pleasant things ? Let us not look back on a Past that 
is sad, but think only of the Future that opens rosy 
before us.” 

“ The Future ! ” repeated Bonne-Marie ; but the 
Future is so uncertain — people die — and are married 

5? 

She stopped short, with half-parted lips, waiting, 
apparently, for a reply. 

“ Oh ! ” replied Morin, lightly, “ when I marry, if I 
ever marry at all, it will be so many years from now, 
that it is not worth while speaking of it.” 

A faint sjgh was heard through the absolute silence 
of the studio. Bonne-Marie had foreseen this cruel 
reply, and had armed herself to support it with courage. 

She succeeded. Her dream was shattered, and the 
ruins seemed about to swallow her up ; but her indomi- 
table pride gave her strength. 

“ You love me ? ” she said, her sweet voice trembling 


HOPES. 173 

slightly, for this hour was one of the most cruel of a 
life that had known much sorrow. 

“ I adore you, Luciane — or Bonne-Marie rather I ” 
answered the painter, enthusiastically. 

“ Have you ever loved any one but me ? ” the girl 
asked, with sad sweetness. 

“ Jealous already ? and of the Past too ! ” Morin 
answered, with a smile. 

Answer me,” the girl repeated. 

“Come now, Luciane, let us be serious. Do you 
suppose a man reaches my age without having left a 
little of his fleece on the briars ? ” i 

“But,” she said, slowly, “it is not quite fair, for I 
have never loved any one but yourself.” 

Morin thought this scene was becoming somewhat 
monotonous, but stifling his growing ennui, he tried to 
take Bonne-Marie in his arms. She drew back, more 
in sorrow than in anger. 

“ I am a poor girl,” she said, slowly, “without friends 
and without fortune; I was led here by ambition; I 
wished to marry above my sphere, and to be rich ; I see 
now that I have made a terrible mistake. But I do not 
intend to be guilty of more than this. No man has 
ever touched my lips, and ” 

Here, Morin, vexed by the tone which this interview 
— begun so well — now assumed, made a little gesture 
which the girl understood only too well. 

“ You do not believe me, I see,” she said, sadly, 
“ and yet I do not know what I have done to deserve 
your bad opinion.” 


174 


HOPES. 


“ But, my child, urged Morin, trying to soothe her, 
“ I have not a bad opinion of you — on the contrary 

“ But you believe I have had a lover ! ” cried the 
girl, in passionate indignation. 

“ Confound it all,” muttered Morin. 

“ And you wish to take his place ? ” 

“ Listen to me. Mademoiselle,” said the young man, 
considerably out of patience, rising in his turn and 
taking a few rapid strides up and down the studio. 

“We have nothing to do with all this,” he continued. 
“ I met you in a place where certainly morality is not 
too rigid, if you will allow me to say so. I have spoken 
to you as men speak to women in such places — with 
more respect, I admit, than is altogether the rule. You 
inspired me with sentiments which I believe to be last- 
ing, and know to be sincere. Now, what on earth does 
it matter what I think and believe of your Past, when 
I tell you, in all frankness, that I adore you, and wish 
to make you love me ? ” 

“ You are right. Sir,” said Bonne-Marie, with lowered 
head. “ It was I who was in the wrong to take the 
stage of a cafe-concert for a pedestal.” 

She took up her hat, wliich she had tossed on a chair, 
and put it on, hastily. 

“ Luciane ! ” exclaimed Morin, “ I beg of you to lay 
aside this childishness ! I adore you ! I cannot live 
without you ” 

“ I love you,” answered Bonne-Marie, in a choked 


HOPES, 


175 


voice, and with tears in her eyes ; “ I love you with all 
my heart and with all my strength ; but I shall never 
give myself to any man but my husband. Farewell. 
You will never know how I have loved you.” 

She opened the door. 

“Her husband!” thought the young man. “She 
must be mad I ” 

“ Luciane I ” he exclaimed, rushing toward her. 

She waived him back, with such dignity, that he 
stood as if petrified. 

“ Respect her whom you do not wish to marry,” she 
said, coldly. “ Think of me, sometimes. I have had 
some happy hours here I ” 

Her voice broke, and Bonne-Marie looked around the 
studio, so carefully arranged for her visit. She saw the 
easel from which her picture smiled, all those objects 
now so familiar, and with which she had associated 
many a dream of happiness ; — then she turned again 
toward Morin, who stood gnawing his moustache, not 
knowing what to say. 

“Yes, I have loved you,” she repeated, with the 
desperate frankness of one who is dying and who cares 
for nothing more in this world. “No one will ever 
love you as much again. I have loved you as a woman 
loves the man to whom she is ready to consecrate her 
life. Not thus have you loved me ” 

“ Luciane I ” cried Morin, rushing toward her. 

“ Adieu I ” she repeated, and the door closed upon 
her. 


176 


HOPES. 


To rush down the stairs after her, to overtake her in 
the court-yard before the eyes of all the neighbors and 
the concierge, was to expose her and himself to infinite 
ridicule, and Morin was especially sensitive to ridicule 
— in fact, he feared nothing in the world half so 
much. He did not cross his threshold, nor make any 
attempt to follow her, therefore — the more too, that a 
tremendous shower at that moment dashed against 
his window. 


A SURPRISE. 


177 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


A SUKPEISE. 



OUIS MORIN’S feelings while he roamed restlessly 


XJ up and down his studio, and the rain thundered 
on his roof and poured down the gutters past his 
window, were not especially agreeable or comforting. 

He was by no means proud of his conduct toward 
Luciane — but then her pretensions were so utterly 
absurd ! 

“ Marry her ! ” said the young man, kicking over a 
chair, and then a footstool, which were in his path. I 
hardly know her^ — that is to say, I know nothing 
about her, whence she came, nor even how she came ! 
It is possible she tells the truth, and that she has 
never loved any one ; and yet — Clotilde told me only 
the other day that she had a story. No ! no ! she is 
a mere adventuress, and hopes to make me marry her 
yet.” 

If Louis Morin had thought for a moment, he could 
have seen that were Luciane an adventuress, her aims 
were not very high in choosing him for a victim, 
inasmuch as he was neither Prince nor Millionaire — 
and for a beautiful creature lil^e that, who, if she were 
what he supposed, must estimate her beauty at its full 
value — to throw herself at the head of a painter 


11 


178 


A SURPKISE. 


without any especial reputation or fortune, and who 
was in all probability exiled forever from the Academy 
— it must be that some little love and disinterested- 
ness were involved. 

Finally, some dim idea of this truth penetrated his 
selfish heart and brain, for he said aloud at last, as if 
in conclusion of all his meditations ; 

“ It can’t be helped. She may be right, but all the 
same, men don’t take their wives from the boards of a 
cafS-concert ! 

Having settled the difference between himself and 
his conscience by this decision, he went toward Bonne- 
Marie’s portrait, which he stood and examined in spite 
of the waning light. Unconsciously influenced by 
the idea he had just announced, his imagination con- 
verted the dreamy, poetical face of this portrait into 
another — bolder and sensual. The lovely eyes were 
enlarged by a little India ink, and grew cold and hard. 
The lips were painted. Luciane was no longer the 
Bonne-Marie whom he had depicted — she was a beau- 
tiful woman, audacious and piquante. 

“No, no! men do not take their wives from the 
boards of a cafe-concert he repeated, as he dressed 
for dinner. 

As the evening wore on, Morin was seized with a 
strong desire to go and hear Luciane sing. He said 
to himself that it was hard for the poor girl after a day 
like this, to be compelled to appear that evening ; for, 
although he thought her extremely bold and presuming 


A SURPRISE. 


179 


in attacking his dearly loved bachelor liberty, he was 
yet quite conscious of her many great merits, and he 
realized her entire sincerity. 

She had said farewell in a tone which he had never 
heard before from human lips — a tone of almost 
despair — and suddenly he recalled the lines of one of 
the ballads he had heard her sing so often, the one in 
which she had in fact achieved her first success. 

“ J’ ai quitte ma soeur au berceau 
Pour venir dans la grande ville.” 

And the rich velvety tones of her touching voice 
stirred the innermost depths of his heart, and re- 
proached him for his selfishness and hardness — for all 
the faults which belonged to him as a man of the world. 

He was unwilling to yield to this desire however, 
for to return to the Casino was to prove to Luciane 
that he had not the strength to stay away, and that he 
feared to lose her. 

Now, has it not been asserted that he who stands 
firm the longest — and yields last — is the stronger of 
the two. In marriage it may be different ; but Morin 
had nothing to do with marriage. 

Therefore he stood firm until half-past ten, and then, 
as by the merest accident, be it understood, he found 
himself on the Champs-Elys^es, he made the judicious 
reflection that nothing was easier than for him to see 
Luciane and she not to see him, as he need not take a 
seat, but could keep in the centre of the crowd. 


180 


A SURPRISE. 


The rain had ceased to fall — the wind had gone 
down, but it was cold, — very cold — and Morin 
shivered at the thought that Luciane was at that 
moment probably exposed to this keen air, as she sang 
with uncovered shoulders. 

With an anxiety therefore that surprised himself 
he entered the enclosure, which he found almost 
empty — the concert had closed almost an hour earlier 
than usual. 

“Why was that?” he asked of an acquaintance, 
whom he met. 

“ Because Luciane did not appear, to sing to-night. 
Her absence was unexpected, and they had no one to 
supply the deficiency.” 

‘^Luciane did not sing?” repeated Morin anx- 
iously, “ and why ? ” 

“No one knows, and there seems, in fact, to be a 
world of excitement about it. The Manager has lost 
his head apparently, for they did not even make the 
usual announcement — ‘in consequence of indisposi- 
tion,’ etc. The audience were displeased, and they 
hissed and shouted ” 

“You too?” 

“ Oh ! yes, I did my part. I am an old philosopher, 
but a little excitement stirs the blood, and refreshes 
one sometimes ! ” 

Morin heard no more — he crossed the Champs 
Elysees, and went directly to Luciane’s house, so dis- 
turbed that he did not even think to take a carriage. 


A SURPRISE. 


181 


He reached the door, but just as he was about to 
ring, he crossed the street and looked up at the win- 
dows. Luciane’s were all black ; one of them was open 
and part of the white curtain was waving in the wind. 

This muslin troubled Morin ; it seemed to him a 
sinister augury, and looked like feminine drapery sus- 
pended over some black abyss. 

He returned to the door and rang violently. 

“ Mademoiselle Luciane ? ” he said to the concierge. 

“ She is gone,” the woman answered sulkily. Where 
was the use of speaking politely to Luciane’s visitors 
now? 

“ Gone I ” 

This was at least better than if the word “ dead ” 
had greeted Morin’s ears, and so great had been his 
fears that this was an absolute relief. He choked a 
little, and then said in an indistinct voice : 

“ Where has she gone ? ” 

“She did not tell me, sir. Would you kindly close 
that door as you go out, for a frightful draught blows 
through.” 

Instead of departing in obedience to this polite dis- 
missal, Morin went into the room and laid a five-franc 
piece on the table before the concierge, saying as he 
did so : 

“ You do not know where she has gone because she 
did not say, but you can at least tell me whether 
she went on foot or not? ” 

The sight of this shining silver piece annihilated 


182 


A SUEPRISE. 


apparently the frightful draught, for the old woman 
made no further allusion to it. 

“ She went away in a carriage, sir,” she replied in 
honeyed accents;” had I known you would have 
cared to know, I could have easily heard the address 
she gave the coachman. The coachman took down her 
trunk, she paid all she owed, and went off as quietly 
as possible.” 

“ With her trunk I ” repeated Morin, — “ and at 
what hour was that ? ” 

“ Half-past seven, or it might have been a quarter 
of eight.” 

Morin reflected for a moment. She had gone, and it 
was to fly from him of course, but, equally of course, 
it was a mere caprice. She would never leave her 
brilliant position and her enthusiastic public in this 
way, merely to annoy a lover who had displeased her. 

“ Did she leave no letters ? ” 

Ah ! this the concierge did not know, but in the hope 
of another flve-franc piece, she proposed to go and see 
if Mademoiselle had left nothing in her “apartment.” 

Morin accepted this offer eagerly, and as she went 
up the staircase, he followed without any objection 
from her. 

The door of “ the apartment ” was swinging in the 
air from one open window, while the others rattled 
dismally. The old woman closed the door, “on ac- 
count of the draught,” and drawing a match from her 
pocket she rubbed it on the delicately tinted paper of 


A SURPRISE. 


183 


the salon, and by this insufficient light looked for a 
candle. The candle was there, and faintly lighted the 
faded carpet and ordinary furniture, Bonne-Marie had 
thought so pretty, when full of childish joy she first 
took possession of the place. 

Alas ! it was clear that she was gone, and gone with 
no intention of return. The chest of drawers were 
empty and open. Bits of ribbon and an old glove or 
two, with some torn paper were all that was left. 

There was no letter. They looked everywhere, even 
on the bed so carefully made. She evidently did not 
intend to be traced and followed. 

“It is very odd,” muttered the concierge, “very 
odd indeed, for before Mademoiselle Luciane came 
nere, there was a pretty little lady with eyelashes a 
yard long, and she did not go away without taking 
care to leave her address for more gentlemen than one.” 

The coarse laugh of the concierge — the thought that 
the lady with eyelashes a yard long, had once inhabited 
this room, which was to him like a chamber of death, 
cut to Morin’s heart. He handed the woman another 
silver piece, and went down the stairs with the greatest 
possible haste. He crossed the street again and looked 
up; the window was closed by the care of the con- 
cierge, and the curtain no longer flapped in the wind. 
It seemed to Morin that Bonne-Marie had gone entirely 
out of his life, which would henceforth be as monoto- 
nous and commonplace as it had been before he knew 
her. The young painter went slowly back to his room. 


184 


LUCIAN e’s letter. 


CHAPTER XXV. 
luciane’s letter. 

T he studio was very dark — a gas burner turned 
down very low, lighted it but dimly. Here 
and there, in the shadow was a white outline, but 
Morin knew his way and he threaded the wilderness 
of chairs and tables, and reached his own especial 
divan; and as he dropped upon it, he remembered 
with a pang that she had sat there at his side that very 
morning. 

It was there she stood as she uttered that touching 
farewell — and he at the time had wilfully closed his 
eyes and ears to the truth that she loved him truly — 
so truly, that she would not lose his respect — too 
truly to be only a passing intruder in the young man’s 
life, and she was gone ! 

“ But I will find her again ! ” murmured Morin, who 
never allowed a gloomy thought to remain in his mind 
long. “ To-morrow I cannot fail to find some trace of 
her.” 

He turned to light the studio lamp that he might 
examine her portrait, but a strange reluctance withheld 
his hand. He was afraid of himself. 

“ To-morrow, by day-light I ” he said aloud, “ one is 
braver when the sun shines.” 


LUCIAN e’s letter. 


185 


The next day he entered his atSlier just as a letter 
was handed him. 

This letter came from Luciane. He knew it as soon 
as he saw it. The writing was very careful, like those 
of persons who write but rarely, and regard it as an act 
of the greatest importance. 

He opened it, read it, and sat motionless, as if struck 
by some fatal blow. 

“ You do not love me enough,” said the young girl, 
“ and I love you so much that I should end by despis- 
ing myself. 

“ I am worthy of being the wife of an honest man, 
and have never done anything to forfeit that right. 
I told you this, but you did not believe me. I was 
ambitious and wished to marry into a class far above 
that in which I was born, and where I should have 
been content. 

“ The means I took were unwise. I understand that 
now, since they cost me your esteem ; but I did not 
know when I appeared on the stage of the concert- 
room, at the caf^, that I should pass for just that which 
I am not. 

“ Had you loved me enough I should have made 
you a faithful and devoted wife. This, however, not 
being God’s will, I return to my native village, which I 
shall never leave again. 

“ Do not try to find me ; for even if you were to suc- 
ceed, it would not be Luciane but Bonne-Marie you 
would meet, and it was not she, it was Luciane whom 
you loved. 


186 


LUCIAN e’s letter. 


“ Luciaiie is dead, and will never sing again.” 

The light rustle of a dry and withered leaf falling 
from a tree aroused the young painter ; he went to the 
easel, lifted the green serge that cowered the portrait, 
and looked at it with involuntary respect. 

Yes, Luciane was dead, and this portrait was all 
that remained of her. 

It was she, smiling, sweet and pale ; her lips lightly 
parted with that wonderful expression which made her 
so marvellously beautiful as she sang. The semi- 
education of Bonne-Marie rendered her especially 
susceptible to the influence of these ballads. Their 
sentimental platitudes were not such to her, for she 
had not been accustomed, like most Parisians, to turn 
everything into a jest. She sang those simple verses 
with her whole heart and soul. She wept with those 
deceived and disappointed maidens, with anxious 
mothers, and with the betrothed of sailors and soldiers. 

All these sentiments, which are absurdly expressed in 
so many ballads of the day, assumed, when uttered by 
her lips, an expression of sincerity and reality that was 
very touching. 

Morin looked at this picture long and intently. He 
had painted her with life-like reality, even to the hands, 
which were a little large and slightly red, and which he 
had not permitted her to glove, pretending, not without 
reason, that hands have a physiognomy as well as faces. 

The face, whose under-current of melancholy he had 
caught, seemed to him to have a resigned expression, 


luciake’s letter. 


187 


which was new to him. No, he had not painted the 
triumphant singer as he had intended, but had depicted 
Bonne-Marie, — Bonne-Marie, who had dreaded to lose 
his love and respect, and who had exiled herself on 
the day she knew the sad truth. 

His heart was full of bitter regret and self reproach ; 
he realized his brutality of the previous day ; he knew 
he had wounded the pride, the self-respect, and the 
heart of this young girl — but that he could ever know 
the depth of these wounds was quite impossible, — for 
men constituted like himself, are incapable of divining 
such mysteries. They only understand the wounds of 
the epidermis. But Morin understood that he had 
hurt her — that she pardoned him, and that he should 
see her no more. 

“It is my chef -d"" oeuvre ! he murmured, as he re- 
garded his work with artistic eyes, and took up his 
palette to finish this head which was to give him a 
name. 

Poor Bonne-Marie ! At this very moment she was 
weeping bitterly in a church at Cherbourg, which she 
had entered to shield herself from impertinent curi- 
osity, while waiting for the hour to take the stage. 

She wept for the love she had lavished on Morin, 
love that had been so totally misunderstood and unap- 
preciated. But she felt no anger and no desire for 
revenge. She was utterly crushed, but resigned. 

“ It was my own work,” she said ; “ the result of my 
own obstinacy, and I am rightly punished ! ” 


188 


THE RETURN. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE RETURN. 

I T was quite late and very dark when the yellow 
stage halted at Omonville. One by one the pas- 
sengers had been dropped along the road. No curious 
eyes had sought to penetrate the tliick crape vail that 
covered Bonne-Marie’s hat and face. Either voice or 
accent was so changed that the driver had not recog- 
nized her. She asked him to take care of her trunk 
until the next day. He consented, supposing her to 
be a city lady on a visit to some country friend, and 
Bonne-Marie found herself alone in the path that led 
to her father’s little cottage. 

She opened the door with a trembling hand. A 
thousand recollections brought the tears to her eyes 
and a choking sensation to her throat, when the fami- 
liar air of the dwelling met her as she entered. 

Mechanically she found in the darkness the things 
she needed, but the wick of the antique lamp was dry, 
and there was no oil in the dusty can. She found a 
candle in her travelling-bag and lighted it. 

“ Ah ! ” she exclaimed aloud, as a great weight 
seemed to be lifted from her heart — “Ah, why did 
I leave my dear home ? Why did I dream of any 
other destiny. I am alone in the world ! — Tears 


THE RETURN. 


189 


streamed from her eyes — alone ! without lover, friends, 
or family ! 

She threw her traveling cloak on the bed and yield- 
ing to the despair that overwhelmed her, she sank on 
the hearthstone, laid her head on her father’s arm-chair, 
and wept as if her very heart would break. 

Every evening before he went to his bed, when he 
was on shore, Jean Baptiste passed Bonne-Marie’s 
house more than once. He would examine each win- 
dow sadly, and then turn his face towards his own 
solitary dwelling, less sad at heart, for it was some- 
thing to have seen the house. 

On the night of Bonne-Marie’s arrival, he did as 
usual, and thought himself dreaming when he saw the 
light in the lower room. He went closer and rubbed 
his eyes. 

Yes, the window was lighted, and but for the pe- 
culiar situation of the house whose front faced the 
water, while Omonville lay in the rear, the whole 
village would have been aware of tliis startling event. 

Jean Baptiste had not much faith in ghosts, and yet 
it was with a certain superstitious terror that he lifted 
the latch. 

The door opened and he saw the young girl kneeling 
in front of her father’s chair. The nervous strength 
of the evening before, which had given her the courage 
to depart, had now deserted her — she was weeping, 
helplessly feeling herself a rudderless ship, driven on 
the shore in a tempest. 


190 


THE RETURN. 


She did not hear the latch, and Jean Baptiste closed 
the door and stood silently looking at her. His face 
blazed with a savage joy. 

“ I knew it ! ” he thought with an emotion that was 
almost vindictive, “ I knew she would return with that 
haughty head bowed. We were not good enough for 
her — she wanted city people, and I fancy she does not 
like them, as much as she did.” 

Bonne-Marie wept on ; sobs shook her slender frame. 
She had ceased to struggle, and only wished that when 
her tears were exhausted she could fall on the hearth- 
stone and sleep, or die ! 

To the first fierce joy of seeing her vanquished, suc- 
ceeded in Jean Baptiste’s h^art an intense pity for the 
poor girl. He said to himself that she would never 
take the trouble to rise from that spot, and he started 
forward to assist her. 

Bonne-Marie heard his footfall, and, much startled, 
lifted her head and recognized in that hale and hearty 
fisherman, the friend of her childhood, he who had 
watched over her, with her father, from her earliest 
childhood. The joy of being no longer alone — of see- 
ing that there was yet one friend left to her, gave her 
new life. She rushed toward him with half- extended 
arms and fell on the sailor’s breast like a bird who 
comes back to its nest. 

“You are here then,” said the young man gravely, 
“ you are here. Did they do you any harm ? ” 

“Jean Baptiste,” the girl murmured through her 
tears, “ I have no one but you.” 


THE RETURN. 


191 


“You have no one but me — but can I look on you 
as I did when you went away ? If your father were 
living now, would you dare to look him in the eyes ? ” 

This was the second time in two days that this 
insulting doubt had been thrown in her face. 

Unconsciously to himself Jean Baptiste sat in judg- 
ment upon her. He had been sure that she would 
return eventually, but he had not expected her so soon, 
and his jealousy took precedence for the moment of 
his tenderness. 

But Bonne-Marie, not loving Jean Baptiste, could 
defend herself. 

If I had anything to blush for,” she said, her tears 
suddenly ceasing to flow, “ do you think I would have 
run to meet you ? You are the last man I would have 
been willing to see.” ^ 

He folded his arms around her with an air of pro- 
prietorship. 

“I believe you,” he said, simply, “for you never 
lied to me ! ” 

She disengaged herself from his embrace and seated 
herself in the great arm-chair, while he stood before 
her. How changed she was, and yet the change was 
indefinable. But the girl’s air and manner seemed to 
create new barriers between them. 

Silence reigned in the dingy room, a silence first 
broken by Jean Baptiste. 

“You are hungry and cold,” he said, “and I am 
going to make you comfortable.” 


192 


THE RETURN. 


He disappeared, and presently returned bringing 
wood and his own supper. The fire soon blazed and 
crackled, warming the chilled walls and giving a more 
cheerful aspect to this sad dwelling. Bonne-Marie 
tried to eat something, but she could not. 

“You need sleep,” he said, “I am going to make a 
fire for you above.” 

He ran up the narrow staircase, and she heard him 
a moment later making a fire and arranging the furni- 
ture. She saw him go out several times and return, 
but her thorough exhaustion prevented her from troub- 
ling herself in regard to what he was doing. 

She felt she had drifted into port, and had found 
a friend, and this for the moment was quite enough 
— she did not need to look further. 

Finally J ean Baptiste came to her, and lifted her as 
if she had been a child, and bore her to the room above 
where he placed her in a chair. 

This cleanly room told of the young girl whose 
home it had long been, it told of a life of self-denial 
and poverty, and was in strong contrast to that which 
Bonne-Marie had just left ; and yet how the sight of 
every familiar object went home to her heart. 

She thanked Jean Baptiste softly — he said good- 
night and withdrew. 

The fire burned with a joyous crackling sound; the 
window curtains had been hastily shaken clear of the 
dust that had accumulated ; the pitcher was filled with 
fresh water and the floor was swept. In a corner stood 
the trunk which he had gone to find. 


THE RETURN. 


193 


How good was the heart of this man whom she had 
repulsed and despised, and who had, notwithstanding, 
taken all that maternal care for her comfort. She was 
almost tempted to call him back and thank him, but 
she thought him far away, for she could not hear a 
sound. 

She opened her trunk, took out some few things she 
needed, and was soon lying on her couch, weary and 
heart sore, and yet with a strange feeling of rest and 
security in her heart. 


12 


194 


HOME AGAIN. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

HOME AGAIN. 

T he sun had been up some time, when Bonne-Marie 
awoke the next morning ; and this first awaken- 
ing was very sweet. Her provincial nature, — her 
instincts of a well-to-do peasant, had revolted against 
much of the shabbiness of her Parisian life. She 
hated cotton sheets, the thin, poor mattrass, and the 
smell of dust in the furnished apartments. She now 
enjoyed the touch of the fresh linen sheets, the simple 
neatness of her room, and the delicious air that came 
in at the open window. There, she was at home — and 
almost every one can understand the bliss of feeling 
one’s self proprietor of the floor one treads upon. 

She went down stairs; the fire was laid ready to 
light; a jug of fresh milk, a loaf of bread, and a plate 
of butter, stood on the table. Jean Baptiste had 
evidently desired to spare her the annoyance of going 
out and answering the thousand questions which would 
be addressed her by curious neighbors. She looked 
around the room and was convinced that her friend 
had spent a portion, at least, of the night on the bed 
of the old smuggler ; probably to be within the sound 
of her voice, should Bonne-Marie need anything. 

So much goodness, joined to so much delicacy, 


HOME AGAIN. 


195 


touched the girl’s heart. Ah! why had it not been 
J ean Morin, whom she had loved ? Why was it that 
this humble peasant had this large, kindly heart, and 
the elegant artist was without one ? 

She had occasion to ask herself this question many 
times during the next few days. When forced to leave 
the shelter of her room, and obliged to face her little 
world, she heard curious questions. 

“ And you are back again I ” said one. “ The air of 
Paris does not agree with you it seems, for you have 
lost your good looks — all your color and your flesh. 
You have spent all your substance, I fancy.” 

“No,” answered the girl, “I have made a little 
money on the contrary — but I was home-sick.” 

She was only half believed, but as she was quiet and 
amiable, although a little haughty, as the people about 
her said, she was let alone and allowed to live in peace. 

The most insulting surmises came to an end, when 
they saw the determination with which Bonne-Marie 
applied herself to finding work to do. 

“ When your father was alive,” they said to her, with 
that rough pity, met with only in the country, “you 
had no need to work. But that was money, perhaps, 
that was none too honestly earned, while now-a-days, 
all you make with your ten fingers, need never bring 
a blush to your cheek.” 

Bonne-Marie accepted all this in silence — all these 
coarse allusions, and the coarse work and insufficient 
wages. But this did not last long, for she soon began 


]9C HOME AGAIN. 

to make lingerie — caps and fichus for the ladies of the 
place; her always clean fingers having acquired new 
skill during her residence in Paris. 

She soon had more than fdie could accomplish, when 
it was discovered that her work was as good as that 
done at Cherbourg, where some of the most exquisite 
things of that kind are done. 

Of course every one was curious to learn some 
details in regard to her life, during the four months she 
had been away, but how were they to discover them ? 
How could they shape their questions? They tried 
every means, intimations, hints, etc., but all in vain. 
To all their questions came Bonne-Marie’s invariable 
reply. 

“ What could I do but sew, as I do here ? ” and this 
was all the satisfaction any one could obtain. 

There was not a human being who had not tried 
this without success, with the exception of Jean Bap- 
tiste. One evening, he came as usual, to ask Bonne- 
Marie if she needed anything. She asked him to come 
in and sit down, and this was the first time he had 
done so since her return, for she had seemed so restless 
and uneasy in his presence, that he did not care to 
linger. 

“You have never asked me,” she said, suddenly, 
“ what I did while in Paris ? ” 

Jean Baptiste shook his head. 

“ What do I care ? ” he asked. 

“Nevertheless, you must know,” continued the 


HOME AGAIN. 


197 


young girl, “ and I wish you to know also, why I came 
back.” 

He did not speak. He had never asked Bonne- 
Marie a question, and yet he never entered her pres- 
ence that one did not burn on his lips. In a very few 
words, the girl made him understand what a 
concert was, and the part she had taken. Jean 
Baptiste had heard much of the theatre, and he readily 
grasped the meaning of what she said, but he remained 
silent. 

She then went on to tell him how she had made the 
acquaintance of the artist, and under what circum- 
stances he had painted her portrait. 

“And this portrait — where is it?” asked the young 
fisherman. 

“ He has it. It is full length — a white dress ” 

At the recollection of this portrait, the sole vestige 
of her transitory glory, a bright color flushed Bonne- 
Marie’s pale cheek. She went on courageously, but it 
was with intense pain that she said in a low voice : 

“ He told me that he loved me. That was all very 
well.” 

“And you,” asked Jean Baptiste, suddenly; “did 
you love him ? ” 

The young girl hesitated a moment. 

“I loved him,” she answered slowly. 

The young man’s lips turned pale. 

“ Go on,” he said, in a strange voice. 

“He loved me, but that was all ; and you who know 


198 


HOME AGAIN. 


me, know very well that I can only love my husband. 
He said not one word of marriage, and yet he was 
attentive to me for a long time. It was I, who spoke 
of marriage, to him.” 

The young man’s eyes quivered, but he did not 
remove them from those of Bonne-Marie. 

“ He did not wish to marry me,” she continued, with 
trembling lips ; “ he wished me to be his mistress, but 
not his wife.” 

“ And then?” 

“ Then I came away, and here I am,” she answered, 
simply. 

“You love him still?” asked Jean Baptiste, without 
looking at her. 

“No, but I weep for him still.” 

“ You love him no longer then, are you sure ? ” 

“ I am sure. I could not love a man who did not 
respect me. You know, Jean Baptiste, that I am not 
made of stuff like that.” 

Bonne-Marie’s wounded pride had killed her love, 
but the wound still bled. She had loved Morin from 
pride, she had fled from him through pride, and it was 
pride that enabled her to drive him from her heart, but 
it would be long ere she recovered all her former sweet 
serenity. 

“ I know you are a true, good woman,” answered the 
young man. “ You see now, how much these fine town 
gentlemen are worth. You have seen that their dainty 
words are not worth so much as our blunt peasant 


HOME AGAIN. 


199 


phrases. I told you, Bonne-Marie, that you would 
come back here sick in body and soul. But your fate 
is far better than I feared, since you dare look the 
world in the face ! ” 

A long silence ensued, and then the young man 
asked with some hesitation : 

“ Why have you told me this ? ” 

“ Because you are my only friend, and I felt that 
you had a right to know.” 

“ He has your portrait, you say ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And it looks like you? ” 

“Not as you see me. My hair was dressed differ- 
ently. Here I wear my linen caps, and there only my 
hair. No, it does not look like Bonne-Marie — it is 
like Luciane. That was my name then.” 

Jean Baptiste was silent and thoughtful. Suddenly 
he looked up ; 

“Well,” he said, “Luciane is not Bonne -Marie. 
Paris is not Omonville — and it is a good distance 
away. Do they know there that you came from here ? ” 

“ No, nobody has my address.” 

“ Do they think you have gone to your home ? ” 

“ I do not know what they think.” 

“ Very well,” said the young man, “ try and forget 
all this, and I will do the same.” 

And he rose and departed without another word. 


200 


AT LAST. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AT LAST. 

W HEN Bonne-Marie was alone she sat with her 
head leaning on her hand in a state of profound 
depression. 

Her brief recital had cost her many a pang, she had 
been impelled to undertake it, solely by the desire to 
raise herself in Jean Baptiste’s opinion. She longed 
for his esteem. The good opinions of others was a 
necessity of her very existence, and it was to free her- 
self from unmerited blame, that she had made this full 
confession, and it seemed to have been useless, for the 
young man did not appear to be in any degree influ- 
enced by it. She expected more warmth, more cordi- 
ality of manner at once. She forgot that Jean Baptiste 
had much to think of — that a rival had suddenly 
appeared before him — and that he felt himself to be 
rejected and left out in the cold, and that the artist 
had been preferred. 

She was very sad for some weeks, and then this sad- 
ness deepened into melancholy. She would occasion- 
ally glance around her humble dwelling, and poor and 
plain as it was, she liked it better than the one in 
which she resided in the days of her fleeting opulence. 
The roar of the sea was pleasanter to her ears than 


AT LAST. 


201 


the roar of carriages. Her present position, accepted 
with resignation at first as a well-merited chastisement, 
had now become very sweet to her, and she had learned 
to look back on her life in Paris as slavery itself. 

One evening late, the tide was coming in and break- 
ing on the beach and against the high rocks with a 
deafening noise, Jean Baptiste was at sea and she felt 
very anxious. He came home every night and found 
neither fire nor supper ; his life was spent in solitude, 
either in his boat, or in his home. She suddenly felt a 
great pity for him, and she ran to his dwelling, lighted 
his fire, and put his soup to heat, and then returned 
with a lighter heart to her own solitary cottage. An 
hour later she heard steps, but she had gone up to her 
room, and there being no light below, the steps gradu- 
ally died away. Then she felt alone and forsaken all 
at once, and life seemed hard to bear. 

Suddenly she went to her trunk, opened it and took 
out the white silk robe Luciane had worn when she 
sang, and applied herself to the self-appointed task of 
ripping it entirely apart. The laces and ribbons she 
had worn, were laid with the pieces of the silk and the 
whole finally rolled up in one close bundle. 

Then nothing was left of that which had embellished 
Luciane. The girl went to sleep with lashes wet with 
tears, and with the feeling of a duty accomplished. 

The next morning, at daybreak, when she went down 
stairs, she found Jean Baptiste in the lower room. All 
the houses in that village were, so to speak, always on 


202 


AT I. A S T . 


the latch; bolts and bars were unknown; crime was 
almost unknown there, and people went and came as 
they pleased among their neighbors. 

Bonne -Marie’s heart beat quicker as she saw the 
young man. She recognized a new expression on his 
handsome manly face. 

“ Bonne-Marie,” he said, “it is all nonsense for us 
each to live alone. Paris is a good distance off — you 
have forgotten, so have I — when shall we be married?” 

The girl was very pale — she liked him, yes she even 
loved him, and wished to minister to his comfort and 
happiness — but to become his wife, was a vastly dif- 
ferent matter. 

“If you do not consent. Bonne -Marie,” he said 
hastily, “ I shall know what to think. You have not 
told me the truth, that is all I have to say.” 

To be again misunderstood, and to be once more 
despised seemed more than she could well bear — she 
looked him full in the face. 

“Let my year of mourning expire first,” she said 
quietly, “ that is all I ask.” 

“That is good!” her friend replied, “now,” he 
added, “ may I breakfast with you? ” 

He opened the door, and dragged in a large basket 
containing the choicest fish he had caught the night 
before. 

“ Look,” he said, “ take what you want — in future 
you are to have the best of everything.” 

She leaned over the basket to avoid his eyes, and all 


AT LAST. 


203 


at once she remembered the day when her father and 
the Coast-Guard were telling stories by the window, 
while Jean Baptiste at the other side of the room 
implored her to look kindly upon him. She lifted her 
eyes to his and saw that he remembered it also. 

“ That time is past and gone, Bonne-Marie,” he said, 
“ past and gone with much that is good and much that 
is bad ; and I can truly say, that I for one, do not wish 
to see it back ! ” 

He took in his rough hand the girl’s slender fingers, 
and drawing her to him kissed her on both cheeks, not 
with the air of a timid lover, but as husband and 
master. 

The winter passed away more quickly than they 
dreamed it could, and was not as prodigal of storms as 
usual, therefore Bonne-Marie did not learn, until later, 
the sorrows and anxiety that fall to the share of any 
woman whose lover or whose husband is a sailor. 

One evening, when the valley was green and fresh 
again, the village gossips learned that this marriage 
would take place the next day. 

The whole village was interested, foi’ Jean Baptiste 
had invited them one and all. 

“ My marriage is nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, 
“ and my bride and I wish to be friends with all the 
world — come one, come all, then, I say.” 

That evening Jean Baptiste was out fishing, for he 
had set his heart on having on his table the finest 
dish of fish that had ever been seen. Bonne -Marie 


204 


AT LAST. 


therefore was alone. She wrapped herself in her cloak 
and went down to the beach, where she had in other 
days dreamed so many fair dreams. She felt the need 
of solitude, for her house had been full all day of neigh- 
bors, and reminded her of a hive of bees. 

When the sea lay before her and a huge rock at her 
right concealed the path that led to the village, she sat 
down. Had all her ambitious dreams ended here in 
this humble fishing port? They had vanished — and 
vanished too, was all romance out of her life — to be 
devoted, in the future, to the austere calm of the con- 
jugal fireside. What a contrast would this summer be 
to the last. In spite of herself, Bonne-Marie remem- 
bered the frantic applause, the madrigals, and bouquets. 
Had she really heard them, or were they dreams like 
the rest. 

The ballad she had sung at her debut came back to 
her. She had forgotten it for she had never sung it 
since her return. Impelled by an irresistible desire to 
try her voice, and ascertain if its power were dimin- 
ished, she sang — 

J’ai quitt^ ma soeur au berceau.’* 

The clear, sweet voice rang over the sands, bathed in 
the golden light of the setting sun. A light mist, 
through which the rays came, was like a halo. Sud- 
denly her voice failed her, she burst into tears, and hid 
her face in the cool, fresh grass. 

“ I have suffered,” she sobbed, “suffered so much, and 
I do so wish to be happy, good, and quiet.” 


AT I. A S T . 


205 


She wiped away her tears and calmed the wild pulsa- 
tions of her heart, and contemplated her future life. 
Jean’s she should certainly be — and happy. Why 
not ? — with duty and mutual confidence as guides. At 
this moment, at the turn of the rock, not on the beach 
whence in her dreams, came the unknown — but on the 
blue transparent sea — appeared Jean Baptiste’s sail. 
It was her husband who was coming — and all dreams 
must vanish at his approach. Bonne-Marie drove them 
away now for the last time. They never came again, 
or, if they did, she knew how to close the door in their 
faces. 

At the Salon of this year, just at the time in fact, 
that this marriage took place at Omonville, a wonder- 
ful portrait of a woman appeared, with thq name 
Luciane. This portrait created an extraordinary ex- 
citement. The critics quarreled over it, all the artists 
discussed it, crowds gathered before it, and of the three 
hundred thousand visitors, who were at the Exposition, 
there were not ten, in all probability, who had not seen 
and admired it. 

The name of Morin was buzzed about as well as that 
of his model. Luciane’s mysterious disappearance, long 
since forgotten, was now revived, and became the 
groundwork of a thousand romances, each and all far 
from the truth. The result of all this was, for Morin, 
a celebrity as rapid as it was dangerous. He was 
punished through his success and through his egotism, 
for never again, in his life, did he do anything to be 
compared to this famous portrait. 


206 


AT LAST. 


It is said, and with reason, that certain writers have 
never done but the one good novel, and that was the 
story of their own existence. After this they could 
not give themselves up to fiction. 

Luciane, when she tore herself from him, had left 
in his side the triple arrow of wounded self-esteem, un- 
satisfied ambition, and some little sincere regret, out of 
which he wove for his friends a tale of an unforgotten 
sorrow. These new sensations had imparted to his 
pencil a depth of sentiment and power of execution 
he could never find again. 

Morin remained therefore, an artist of second-rate 
reputation ; but he became rich, for Luciane’s portrait 
induced a wealthy heiress to order her own from him, 
and this order ended in matrimony. 

Ten years from this time Bonne-Marie was the mother 
of three fisher lads, handsome as pictures. The eldest 
went out with his father in his boat constantly, and 
the other two rolled in the warm sand on the sea-shore, 
and paddled in the water to their hearts’ content. 

About this time, it so happened, that there was a 
grand f^te in preparation, at Cherbourg, in honor of 
the launching of a frigate, built for the navy. 

The Minister would be there, and the journals gave 
the names of the men of distinction who would accom- 
pany him. Among these Bonne-Marie read that of 
Louis Morin, who came to sketch the scene for a great 
Paris paper. 

She was alone as she read this announcement, and all 


AT LAST. 


207 


at once she felt that she must see the man again who 
had played so important a part in her life ; not that she 
preserved the smallest vestige of tenderness for him, 
but she fancied that should she see him, she would love 
her husband more fondly than ever. 

Choosing an auspicious moment she spoke to Jean 
Baptiste of this new fancy of hers, and as she rarely 
asked for any indulgence, he was only too glad to give 
his permission for her to go to Cherbourg for the f^tes. 
The children would remain at home with their father. 

Among a crowd of unknown faces, she was not long 
in discovering that of Morin, but so changed, that she 
looked at him at first with considerable doubt. 

He had grown stout and gray. His eyes were 
surrounded with wrinkles, and he looked much older 
than he really was, for notwithstanding his financial 
success, the consciousness that other artists thought 
very little of his works, had never ceased to weigh 
upon him. He was rich, but sad, being embittered by 
the consciousness of his utter lack of genius. 

“And that is the man I loved,” said Bonne-Marie to 
herself. “I was utterly mad!” The look that she 
riveted upon the artist affected him magnetically, and 
he looked up. 

Morin’s involuntary start, proved to Bonne-Marie 
that he had not forgotten his former model. Her 
features were as clearly cut as ever, and her eyes had 
lost none of their velvety brilliancy ; but he attributed 
this resemblance to accident — to the type of the 


208 


AT LAST. 


country, possibly. Bonne-Marie offered so calm and 
unmoved a countenance to his inquiring eyes, that he 
passed on without an idea of the truth. 

She looked after him ; his slightly rounded shoulders, 
a certain sulky air about the whole form and face of 
this discontented artist, excited her pity. 

“ Is it possible,” she said, as she turned homeward, 
without waiting for the f^tes ; is it possible that I ever 
loved this man?” 

Her husband was much surprised at her speedy 
return, without waiting for the launch or the fire-works. 

“I found it wearisome,” she answered quietly. “I 
was not amused without you.” 

That evening, when the children were asleep and 
Jean Baptiste sat smoking his pipe, his wife said to him : 

“My dear, I have seen Louis Morin.” 

Jean Baptiste started, and looked at his wife, who 
smiled tenderly in return. 

“Indeed!” he said, with a jealous intonation in his 
voice. 

“Well, my man,” she answered, employing the 
phraseology of the district, “ I love you 1 and that is all 
that is to be said.” 

Jean Baptiste took in his, the hand that rested on his 
shoulder, and went on smoking his pipe. 

They are perfectly happy. 


THE END. 


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MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS. 

Oomplite in forty-three large d’wdedmo volumes, hound in morocco cloth, gilt hack, 
price $1.75 each; or $75.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

The Phantom Wedding; or, The Fall of the House of Flint, $l 75 


Self-Kaised ; From the Depths..$l 75 

Ishmael; or. In the Depths,..., 1 75 

The Mother-in-Law, 1 75 

The Fatal Secret, 1 75 

How He Won Her, 1 75 

Fair Play, 1 75 

The Spectre Lover, 1 75 

Victor’s Triumph, 1 75 

A Beautiful Fiend, 1 75 

The Artist’s Love, 1 75 

A Noble Lord, 1 75 

Lost Heir of Linlithgow, 1 75 

Tried for her Life, 1 75 

Cruel as the Grave, 1 75 

The Maiden Widow, 1 75 

The Family Doom, 1 75 

The Bride’s Fate, 1 75 

The Changed Brides, 1 75 

Fallen Pride, I 75 

The Widow’s Son, 1 75 

The Bride of Llewellyn, 1 75 


The Fatal Marriage, 1 75 

The Deserted Wife, 1 75 

The Fortune Seeker, 1 75 

The Bridal Eve, 1 75 

The Lost Heiress, 1 75 

The Two Sisters, 1 75 

Lady of the Isle, 1 75 

Prince of Darkness, 1 75 

The Three Beauties, 1 75 

Vivia; or the Secret of Power, 1 75 

Love’s Labor Won, 1 75 

The Gipsy’s Prophecy, 1 75 

Retribution, 1 75 

The Christmas Guest, 1 75 

Haunted Homestead, 1 75 

Wife’s Victory, 1 75 

Allworth Abbey, 1 75 

India; Pearl of Pearl River,.. 1 75 

Curse of Clifton, 1 75 

Discarded Daughter, 1 75 

The Mystery of Dark Hollow,.. 1 75 


The Missing Bride; or, Miriam, the Avenger, 1 75 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS. 

Green and Gold Edition. Complete in twelve volumes, in green morocco cloth, 
price $1.75 each; or $21.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 

Ernest Linwood, $1 75 Love after Marriage, $1 75 

The Planter’s Northern Bride,.. 1 75 Eoline; or Magnolia Vale, 1 75 

Courtship and Marriage, 1 75 The Lost Daughter, 1 75 

Rena; or, the Snow Bird, 1 75 The Banished Son, 1 75 

Marcus Warland, I 75 Helen and Arthur, 1 75 

Linda; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole, 1 75 

Robert Graham; the Sequel to ‘‘Linda; or Pilot of Belle Croule.”... 1 75 
Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


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4 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST WORKS. 

Basil; or, The Crossed Path..$l 50 | The Dead Secret. 12mo $1 50 

Above are each in one large duodecimo volume, bound in cloth. 


The Dead Secret, 8vo 75 

Basil; or, the Crossed Path, 75 

Hide and Seek, 75 

After Dark, 75 


The Queen’s Revenge, 75 

Miss or Mrs ? 50 

Mad Monkton, 50 

Sights a-Foot, 50 


The Stolen Mask, 25 | The Yellow Mask,... 25 | Sister P»,ose,... 25 

The above books are each issued in paper cover, in octavo form. 

FRANK FORRESTER’S SPORTING BOOK. 

Frank Forrester’s Sporting Scenes and Characters. By Henry Wil- 
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EMERSON BENNETT’S WORKS. 

Compute in seven large, duodecimo volumes, hound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.75 
each ; or $12.26 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 


The Border Rover, $1 75 

Clara Moreland, 1 75 

The Orphan’s Trials, I 75 


Bride of the Wilderness, $1 75 

Ellen Norbury, I 75 

Kate Clarendon, 1 75 


Viola; or Adventures in the Far South-West, 1 75 

Above are each iu cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

The Heiress of Bellefonte, 75 | The Pioneer’s Daughter, 75 

GREEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING. 

VompleU in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.75 
each { or $7.00 a set, each set is put tip in a neat box. 

Gambling Exposed, $1 75 i Reformed Gambler, $l 75 

The Gambler’s Life, 1 75 | Secret Band of Brothers, 1 75 

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DOW’S PATENT SERMONS. 

Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back, price $1.5® 
each ; or $o.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 


Dow’s Patent Sermons, 1st 

Series, cloth, $1 50 

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 2d 
Series, cloth, 1 50 


Dow’s Patent Sermons, Sd 

Series, cloth, $1 50 

Dow’s Patent Sermons, 4th 
Series, cloth, 1 50 


Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.00 each. 

MISS BRADDON’S WORKS. 

Aurora Floyd, 75 I The Lawyer’s Secret, 25 

Aurora Floyd, cloth 1 00 \ For Better, For AVorse, 76 


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ALEXANDER DUMAS 

Count of Monte-Cristo, $1 50 

Edmond Dantes, 75 

The Three Guardsmen, 75 

Twenty Years After, 75 

Bragelonne, 75 

The Iron Mask, 1 00 

Louise La Vallicrc, 1 00 

Diana of Meridor, 1 00 

Adventures of a Marquis, 1 

Love and Liberty, (1792-’93) .. 1 


00 

50 


WORKS. 

I Memoirs of a Physician, $1 00 

Queen’s Necklace, 1 00 

Six Years Later, 1 00 

Countess of Charny, 1 00 

Audree de Taverney, 1 00 

The Chevalier, 1 00 

Forty-five Guardsmen, 1 00 

The Iron Hand, 1 00 

The Conscript, 1 5o 


Countess of Monte-Cristo,. 


Camille; or. The Fate of a Coquette, (La Dame Aux Camelias,) 1 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


00 

50 


The Mohicans of Paris, 75 

The Horrors of Paris, 75 

The Fallen Angel, 75 

Felina de Chambure, 75 

Sketches in France, 75 

Isabel of Bavaria 75 

Twin Lieutenants, 75 

Man with Five Wives, 75 


Annette; or, Lady of Pearls,... 75 

George ; or. Isle of France, 50 

Madame De Chamblay 60 

The Black Tulip, 60 

The Corsican Brothers, 50 

The Count of Moret,.... 50 

The Marriage Verdict, 50 

Buried Alive, 25 


GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS. 


Mysteries Court of London,. ...$1 00 

Rose Foster, i 50 

Caroline of Brunswick, 1 00 

Venetia Trelawney, 1 00 

Lord Saxondale, 1 00 

Count Christoval, 1 00 

Rosa Lambert, 1 00 

Wallace, the Hero of Scotland,. 1 00 


Mary Price, $l 00 

Eustace Quentin, 1 00 

Joseph Wilmot., 

Banker’s Daughter,... 

Kenneth, 

The Rye-House Plot,. 

The Necromancer, 

The Gipsy Chief,. 


The Mysteries of the Court of Naples, full of Illustrations 1 

Robert Bruce, the Hero- King of Scotland, full of Illustrations, 1 00 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots,.. 75 

The Opera Dancer, 75 

Child of Waterloo, 75 

Isabella Vincent, 75 

Vivian Bertram, 75 

Countess of Lascelles, 75 

Duke of Marchmor.t, 75 

Massacre of Glencoe, 75 

Loves of the Harem, 75 

The Soldier’s Wife, 75 

May Middleton, 75 


Ellen Percy, 75 

Agnes Evelyn, 75 

Pickwick Abroad, 75 

Parricide, 75 

Discarded Queen, 75 

Life in Paris, 50 

The Countess and the Page,.,.. 75 

Edgar Montrose, 50 

The Ruined Gamester, 50 

Clifford and the Actress, 60 

Ciprina ; or, the Secrets, 50 


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8 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 

The following hooks are each issued in one large duodecimo volume^ 
hound in cloth, at $1.75 each, or each one is in paper cover at $1.60 each. 

The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated, ...$1 75 
The Countess of Monte-Cristo. Paper cover, price $1.00 j or cloth,.. 1 75 

Camille; or, the Fate of a Coquette. By Alexander Dumas, 1 75 

Love and Money. By J. B. Jones, author of the “ Rival Belles,”... 1 75 
The Brother’s Secret; or, the Count De Mara. By William Godwin, 1 75 
The Lost Love. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of Margaret Maitland,” 1 75 
The Roman Traitor. By Henry William Herbert. A Roman Story, 1 76 

The Bohemians of London. By Edward M. Whitty, 1 75 

Wild Sports and Adventures in Africa. By Major W. C. Harris, 1 75 
Courtship and Matrimony. By Robert Morris. With a Portrait,... 1 75 

The Jealous Husband. By Annette Marie Maillard, 1 75 

The Life, Writings, and Lectures of the late “ Fanny Fern,” 1 75 

The Life and Lectures of Lola Montez, with her portrait, 1 75 

Wild Southern Scenes. By author of “Wild Western Scenes,” 1 75 

Currer Lyle ; or, the Autobiography of an Actress. By Louise Reeder. 1 75 

The Cabin and Parlor. By J. Thornton Randolph. Illustrated, 1 75 

The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey, 1 75 

Lizzie Glenn; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. By T. S. Arthur, 1 75 

Lady Maud ; or, the Wonder of Kingswood Chase. By Pierce Egan, 1 75 

Wilfred Montressor ; or. High Life in New York. Illustrated, 1 75 

The Old Stone Mansion. By C. J. Peterson, author “Kate Aylesford,” 1 75 
Kate Aylesford. By Chas. J. Peterson, author “ Old Stone Mansion,”. 1 75 

Lorrimer Littlegood, by author Harry Coverdale’s Courtship,” 1 75 

The Earl’s Secret. A Love Story. By Miss Pardoe, 1 75 

The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe, author of “The Earl’s Secret,” 1 75 
Coal, Coal Oil, and all other Minerals in the Earth. By Eli Bowen, 1 75 

Secession, Coercion, and Civil War. By J. B. Jones, 1 75 

Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.60 each. 

The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins, author of “ The Crossed Path,” 1 50 

The Crossed Path ; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins, 1 50 

Indiana. A Love Story. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” 1 50 
Jealousy ; or, Teverino. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo,” etc. 1 50 
Six Nights with the Washingtonians, Illustrated. By T. S. Arthur, 3 50 
Comstock’s Elocution and Model Speaker. Intended for the use of 
Schools, Colleges, and for private Study, for the Promotion of 
Health, Cure of Stammering, and Defective Articulation. By 
Andrew Comstock and Philip Lawrence. With 236 Illustrations.. 2 00 
The Lawrence Speaker. A Selection of Literary Gems in Poetry and 
Prose, designed for the use of Colleges, Schools, Seminaries, Literary 
Societies. By Philip Lawrence, Professor of Elocution. 600 pages.. 2 00 


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T. B. PETESSON & BEOTHEES’ PUBLICATIONS. 9 


ALEXANDEE DUMAS’ WOEKS, BOUND IN CLOTH. 

The follotoing are cloth editions of Dumas’ and Reynolds’ icor/cs, and they art 
each issued in large octavo volumes, bound in cloth, price $1.75eao/t. 

The Three Guardsmen ; or, The Three Mousquetaires. By A. Dumas, SI 76 
Twenty Years After; or the ** Second Series of Three Guardsmen,” ... 1 73 
Bragelonne; Son of Athos ; or “ Third Series of Three Guardsmen,” 1 75 
The Iron Mask; or the “ Fourth Series of The Three Guardsmen,”.... 1 75 
Louise La Valliere; or tho ‘‘Fifth Series and End of the Three 

Guardsmen Series,” 1 75 

The Memoirs of a Physician. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated,... 1 75 
Queen's Necklace; or “Second Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
Six Years Later; or the “ Third Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
Countess of Charny ; or “ Fourth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,’* 1 75 
Andree Do Taverr.ey ; or “ Fifth Series of Memoirs of a Physician,” 1 75 
The Chevalier; or itio “ Sixth Series and End of the Memoirs of a 


Physician Series,” 1 75 

The Adventures of a Marquis. By Alexander Dumas, 1 75 

The Count of Monte-Cristo. By Alexander Dumas, 1 75 

Edmond Dantes. A Sequel to the “ Count of Monte-Cris.’o,” I 75 

The Forty-Five Guardsmen. By Alexander Dumas. Illustrated,... 1 75 
Diana of Meridor, or Lady of Monsoreau. By Alexander Dumas,... 1 75 
The Iron Hand. By Alex. Dumas, author "Count of Monte-Cristo," 1 75 

Camille; or tho Fato of a Coquette. (La Damo aux Camelias,) 1 75 

Tho Conscript. A novel of the Days of Napoleon tho First, 1 75 

Love and Liberty. A novel of the French Revolution of 17y2-1793, I 75 


GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS, IN CLOTH. 

TheMy.«teries of the Court of London. By George W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 
Rose Foster; or the “Second Series of Mysteries of Court of London,” 1 75 
Caroline of Brunswick ; or the “ Third Series of the Court of London,” 1 75 
Venotia Trelawney; or “End of the Mysteries of the Court of London,” 1 75 

Lord Saxondale; or the Court of Queen Victoria. By Reynolds, 1 75 

Count Christoval. Sequel to " Lord Saxondale." By Reynolds, 175 

Rosa Lambert; or Memoirs of an Unfortunate Woman. By Reynolds, 

Mary Price; or the Adventures of a Servant Maid. By Reynolds,... 
Eustace Quentin. Sequel to “ Mary Price." By G. W. M. Reynolds, 
Joseph Wilmot; or the Memoirs of a Man Servant. By Reynolds,... 

Tho Banker’s Daughter. Sequel to "Joseph Wilmot." By Reynolds, 
Kenneth. A Romance of the Highlands. By G. W. M. Reynolds, 

Rye-House Plot; or the Conspirator's Daughter. By Reynolds, 1 75 

Necromancer; or the Times of Henry the Eighth. By Reynolds, 1 75 

The Mysteries of the Court of the Stuarts. By G. W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 

Wallace; the Hero of Scotland. By G. W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 

The Gipsy Chief. By George W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 

Robert Bruce; the Hero King of Scotland. By G. W. M. Reynolds, 1 75 


75 

75 

75 

75 

75 

75 


Pj?* Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


10 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. 


WORKS BY THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 

The following books are each issued in one large octavo volume, hound in 
cloth, at $2.00 each, or each one is done up in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

The Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations, $2 00 

Mysteries of Paris; and its Sequel, Gerolstein. By Eugene Sue,.... 2 00 

Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue. Full of Illustrations, 2 00 

Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. With Illustrations,.... 2 00 

Washington and Ilis Generals. By George Lippard,.. 2 00 

The Quaker City; or, the Monks of Monk Hall. By George Lippard, 2 00 

Blanche of Brandywine. By George Lippard, 2 00 

Paul Ardenheim; the Monk of Wissahickon. By George Lippard,. 2 00 
The Mysteries of Florence. By Geo. Lippard, author “ Quaker Citj',” 2 00 

The Pictorial Tower of London. By W. Harrison Ainsworth, 2 50 

Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 

The following are each issued in one large octavo volume, hound in cloth, price $2.00 
each, or a cheap edition is issued in paper cover, at lb cents each. 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lover, Cloth, $2 00 

Harry Lorrequer. With his Confessions. By Charles Lever,. ..Cloth, 2 00 

Jack Hinton, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Davenport Dunn. A Man of Our Day. By Charles Lever,. ..Cloth, 2 00 

Tom Burke of Ours. By Charles Lever Cloth, 2 00 

The Knight of Gwynne. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Arthur O’Leary. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Con Cregan. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Horace Templeton. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Kate O’Donoghue. By Charles Lever, Cloth, 2 00 

Valentine Vox, the Ventriloquist. By Harry Cockton, Cloth, 2 00 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at 75 cents each. 

HUMOROUS ILLUSTRATED WORKS. 

Each one is full of Illustrations, hg Felix 0. G. Darley, and hound in Cloth, 

Major Jones’ Courtship and Travels. With 21 Illustrations, $1 75 

Major Jones’ Scenes in Georgia. With 16 Illustrations, 1 75 

Simon Suggs' Adventures and Travels. With 17 Illustrations, 1 75 

Swamp Doctor’s Adventures in the South-West. 14 Illustrations,... 1 50 

Col. Thorpe’s Scenes in Arkansaw. With 16 Illustrations, 1 50 

The Big Bear’s Adventures and Travels. With 18 Illustrations, 1 75 

High Life in Now York, by Jonathan Slick. With Illustrations,.... 1 75 

Jit^ge H.aliburton’s Yankee Stories. Illustrated, 1 75 

Harry Coverdale’s Courtship and Marriage. Illustrated, 1 75 

Piney Wood’s Tavern; or, Sam Slick in Texas. Illustrated, 1 75 

Sam Slick, the Clockmakcr. By Judge Haliburton. Illustrated,... 1 75 
Humors of Falconbridge. By J. F. Kelley. With Illustrations, ... 1 75 

Modern Chivalry. By Judge Breckenridge. Two vols., each 1 75 

Neal’s Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal. 21 Illustrations,... 2 50 


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T. B. PETEESON & BEOTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS. II 


NEW AND GOOD BOOKS BY BEST AUTHORS. 

Beautiful Snow, and Other Poems. Neto Illustrated Edition. By J. W. 
Watson. With Illustrations by E. L. Henry. One A^olume, morocco 
cloth, black and gold, gilt top, side, and back, price $2.00; or in 
maroon morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides,$3 00 
The Outcast, and Other Poems. By J. W. Watson. One volume, 
green morocco cloth, gilt top, side and back, price $2.00 ; or in ma- 
roon morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, ... 3 00 
The Young Magdalen; and Other Poems. By Francis S. Smith, 
editor of ‘‘ The New York Weekly.” With a portrait of the author. 
Complete in one large volume of 300 pages, bound in green mo- 
rocco cloth, gilt top, side, and back, price $3.00; or in full gilt,.... 4 00 
Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. Volume One. Con- 
taining the “ First” ‘‘Second,” and “ Third Series” of the “ Breit- 


mann Ballads,” bound in morocco cloth, gilt, beveled boards, 3 00 

Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. Volume Two. 
Containing the “Fourth” and “Fifth Series” of the “ Breitmann . 

Ballads,” bound in morocco cloth, gilt, beveled boards 2 00 

Hans Breitmann’s Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. Being the above 
two volumes complete in one. In one large A^olume, bound in 
morocco cloth, gilt side, gilt top, and full gilt back, with beveled 

boards. With a full and complete Glossary to the whole work, 4 00 

Meister Karl’s Sketch Book. By Charles G. Leland, (Ilans Breit- 
mann.) Complete in one volume, green morocco cloth, gilt side, 
gilt top, gilt back, with beveled boards, price $2.50, or in maroon 

morocco cloth, full gilt edges, full gilt back, full gilt sides, etc., 3 50 

The Ladies’ Guide to True Politeness and Perfect Manners. By 
Miss Leslie. Every lady should have it. Clotli, full gilt back,... 1 75 
The Ladies’ Complete Guide to Needlework and Embroider}’. With 

113 illustrations. By Miss Lambert. Cloth, full gilt back, 1 75 

The Ladies’ Work Table Book. With 27 illustrations. Cloth, gilt,. 1 50 
Cyrilla; or the Mysterious Engagement. By author of “ Initials,” 1 00 

The Miser’s Daughter. By William Harrison Ainsworth, cloth, 1 75 

John Jasper’s Secret. A Sequel to Charles Dickens’ “ Mystery of 

Edwin Drood.” With 18 Illustrations. Bound in cloth, 2 00 

The Last Athenian. From the Swedish of Victor Eydberg. Highly 
recommended by Fredrika Bremer. Paper $1.60, or in cloth, 2 00 


^Lcross the Atlantic. Letters from France, Switzerland, Germany, 
Italy, and EngLand. By C. H. Haeseler, M.D. Bound in cloth,... 2 00 
The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray, paper, 50 cents, or cloth, I 00 
Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. By Dow, Jr. In 4 a*o1s., cloth, each.... 1 60 
Wild Oats Sown Abroad. A Spicy Book. By T. B. Witmer, cloth,... 1 50 
Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. Illustrated, 1 50 
Historical Sketches of Plymouth, Luzerne Co., Penna. By Hendrick 
B. Wright, of Wilkesbur re. With Twenty-five Photographs, 4 00 


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14 T. B. PETEESON & BROTHEES’ PUBLICATIONS. 


WORTS BT THE VERY BEST AUTHORS. 

The Conscript; or, the Days of Napoleon 1st. By Alex. Dumas,. ...$1 76 
Cousin Harry. By Mrs. Grey, author of ‘‘ The Gambler’s Wife,” etc. 1 75 

Married at Last. A Love Story. By Annie Thomas, 1 75 

Shoulder Straps. By Henry Morford, author of “Days of Shoddy,” 1 75 
Days of Shoddy. By Henry Morford, author of “Shoulder Straps,” 1 75 

The Coward. By Henry Morford, author of Shoulder Straps,” 1 75 

Above books are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 
Harry Lorrequer. 'With His Confessions. By Charles Lever. Four 
different editions : one at 75 cents in paper cover, and three bound in 
cloth, viz. : Sterling Series, at $1.00, Peoples' Edition, at $1.50, and 
Library Edition, at $2.00. 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. Four different editions: one at 75 
cents in paper cover, and three bound in cloth, viz. : Sterling Series, at 
$1.00, Peoples' Edition, at $1.50, and Library Edition, at $2.00. 

WORKS IK SETS BY THE BEST AUTHORS. 


Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth’s Popular Novels. 43 vols. in all, 75 25 

Mrs. Ann S. Stephens’ Celebrated Novels. 23 volumes in all, 40 25 

Miss Eliza A. Dupuy’s Works. Fourteen volumes in all, 24 50 

Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz’s Novels. Twelve volumes in all, 21 00 

Mrs. C. A. Warfield’s Novels. Nine volumes in all, 15 75 

Frederika Bremer’s Novels. Six volumes in all, 10 50 

T. Adolphus Trollope’s Works. Seven volumes in all, 12 25 

James A. Maitland’s Novels. Seven volumes in all, 12 25 

Charles Lever’s Works. Ten volumes in all, 20 00 

Alexander Dumas’ Works. Twenty-one volumes in all, 36 75 

George W. M. Reynolds’ Works. Eighteen volumes in all, 31 60 

Frank Fairlegh’s Works. Six volumes in all, 10 5^ 

Q. K. Philander Doestick’s Novels. Four volumes in all, 7 00 

Cook Books. The best in the world. Eleven volumes in all, 19 25 

Henry Morford’s Novels. Three volumes in all, 5 25 

Mrs. Henry Wood’s Novels. Seventeen volumes in all, 29 75 

Emerson Bennett’s Novels. Seven volumes in all 12 25 

Green’s Works on Gambling. Four volumes in all, 7 00 

American Humorous Works. Illustrated. Twelve volumes in all, 21 00 

Eugene Sue’s Best Works. Three volumes in all, 6 00 

George Sand’s Works. Consuelo, etc. Five volumes in all, 7 50 

George Lippard’s Works. Five volumes in all, 10 00 

Dow’s Short Patent Sermons. Four volumes in all, 6 00 


The Waverley Novels. National Edition. Five large 8vo. vols., cloth, ] 5 00 
Ch.arles Dickens’ Works. People’s 12/ho. Edition. 22 vols., cloth, 34 00 
Charles Dickens’ Works. Green Cloth \2ino. Edition. 22 vols., cloth, 44 00 
Charles Dickens’ Works. Illustrated 12//io. Edition. 36 vols., cloth, 65 00 
Charles Dickens’ Works. Illustrated 8oo. Edition. 18 vols., cloth, 31 50 
Charles Dickens’ Works. Neto National Edition. 7 volumes, cloth, 20 00 


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CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

GREAT RBDCrCTIOlSr IN THEIR PRICES. 


CHEAP PAPER COVER EDITION OF DICKENS’ WORKS. 


Each hook heuxg coinpleie 


Pickwick Papers, 50 

Nicholas Nickleby, 50 

Doinbey and Son, . 50 

Our Mutual Friend, 50 

David Copperfield 50 

Martin Chuzzlewit, 50 

Old Curiosity Shop, 50 

Oliver Twist, 50 

American Notes, 25 

Hard Times, 25 

A Tale of Two Cities, 25 

Somebody's huggagc, 25 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings, 25 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy, 25 

Mugby Junction, 25 

Dr. Marigold’s Prescriptions,... 25 
Mystery of Edwin Drood, ....... 25 

Message from the Sea............. 25 


iJunteJ Down; and Other lleprintec 


ill one large octavo volume. 

Bleak House, 

Little Dorrit, 

Christmas Stories, 

Barnaby Rudge, 

Sketches by “Boz,” 

Great Expectations, 

Joseph Grimaldi, 

The Pio-Nic Papers, 

The Haunted House, 

Uncommercial Traveller, ..... 

A House to Let, 

Perils of English Prisoners, 

V’ reck of the Golden Mary, 

Tom Tiddler’s Ground, 

Dickens’ New Stories,.... 

Lazy Tour of Idle Apprentices,. 

The Holly-Tree Inn, 

No Thoroughfare, 

Pieces, 


5ft 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

25 

25 . 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

50 


PEOPLE’S DUODECIMO EDITION. ILLUSTRATED. 

Reduced in price from. $2.50 to $1.50 a volume. 

Thin edition in printed on fine paper, from large, clear tgpe, leaded, that 
all can read, containing Two Hundred Illustrations on tinted pajyer. 


Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $1.50 

Pickwick Papers, Cloth, 1.50 

Nicholas Nickleby Cloth, 1.50 

Great Expectations, Cloth, 1 .50 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 1.50 

Oliver Twist, ..........Cloth, 1.50 

Bleak House, Cloth, 1.50 

A Tale of Two Cities,. ..Cloth, 1.50 


Little Dorrit, Cloth, $1.50 

Dombey and Son Cloth, 1.50 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 

Sketches by “ Boz,” Cloth, 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 

Dickens’ New Stories,.. Cloth, 


Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey’s Clock, ...... Cloth, 

American Notes; and the IJncommercial Traveller,.. Cloth, 

Hunted Down; and other Reprinted Pieces, Cloth. 

The Holly-Tree Inn; and other Stories, Cloth, 

The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens, Cloth, 

John Jasper’s Secret. Sequel to Mystery of Edwin Drood, ...Cloth, 

Price of a set, in Black cloth, in twenty-two volumes, $34.00 

“ " Full sheep. Library style, 45. OC 

“ Half calf, sprinkled edges, 56.00 

" Half coif, marbled edges, 61.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique, or half calf, full gilt backs, etc. 66.00 


1.50 

1.50 

1.60 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

1.50 

2.00 

2.00 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Pliiladelphia, Fa. (15) 


18 T. B. BETEESON & BEOTHEES’ PUBLICATIONS. 


HUMOEOUS AMEEICAN WOEKS. 

With Illuminated Covers, and beautifully Illustrated by Felix 0. O.Darley^ 

Major Jones’s Courtship. With Illustrations by Darley, 75 

Major Jones’s Sketches of Travels. Full of Illustrations 75 

The Adventures of Captain Simon Suggs. Illustrated, 75 

Major Jones’s Chronicles of Pineville. Illustrated, 75 

Polly Peablossoin’s Wedding. With Illustrations, 75 

Widow Rugby’s Husband. Full of Illustrations, 75 

The Big Bear of Arkansas, Illustrated by Darley, 75 

Western Scenes : or. Life on the Prairie, Illustrated, 75 

Streaks of Squatter Life and Far West Scenes. Illustrated, 75 

Pickings from the New Orleans Picayune. Illustrated, 75 

.Stray Subjects Arrested and Bound Over. Illustrated 75 

The Louisiana Swamp Doctor. Full of Illustrations,,..., 75 

Charcoal Sketches. By Joseph C. Neal, Illustrated, 75 

Peter Faber’s Misfortunes. By Joseph C. Neal. Illustrated, 75 

Peter Ploddy and other Oddities. By Joseph C. Neal, 75 

Yankee Among the Mermaids. By William E. Burton 75 

The Drama in Pokcrville, By J. M. Field. Illustrated, 75 

New Orleans Sketch Book, With Illustrations by Darley, 75 

The Deer Stalkers. By Frank Forrester. Illustrated, 75 

The Quorndon Hounds. By Frank Forrester. Illustrated, 75 

My Shooting Box. By Frank Forrester. Illustrated, 75 

The Warwick Woodlands. By Frank Forrester. Illustrated, 75 

Adventures of Captain Farrago, By H. H. Brackenridge, 75 

Adventures of Major Q’Regan, By H. H. Brackenridge, 75 

Sol Smith’s Theatrical Apprenticeship. Illustrated, 75 

Sol Smith’s Theatrical Journey-Work. Illustrated, 75 

Quarter Race in Kentucky, With Illustrations by Darley...... 75 

The Mysteries of the Backwoods. By T. B. Thorpe, 75 

Peroival Mayberry’s Adventures. By J. 11. Ingraham, 75 

Sam Slick’s Yankee Yarns and Yankee Letters,..,., 75 

Adventures of Fudge Fumble j or, Love Scrapes of his Life, 75 

Aunt Patty’s Scrap Bag. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hcntz, 75 

Following the Drum. By Mrs. Gen. Viele,.... 50 

The American Joe Miller. With 100 Engravings, ,.., 60 

SAMUEL WARDEN'S BEST BOOKS. 

Ten Thousand a Year, paper,$l 50 I The Diary of a Medical Stu- 
Ten Thousand a Year, cloth,.. 2 00 1 dent, 7S 

WILLIAM H. MAXWELL’S WORKS. 

Wild Sports of the West, 75 I Brian O’Lynn, 75 

Stories of Waterloo, 75 1 Life of Grace O’Malley, 6Q 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brotliera, Philadelphia, Pe^. 


T. B. PETEESON & BROTHEES’ PUBEICATIOXS. 19 


MISS PAEDOE’S POPULAR WORKS. 


The Kival Beauties, 75 

Romance of the Harem, 75 


Confessions of a PrettyWoman, 75 

The Wife's Trials, 75 

The Jealous Wife, 75 

Each of the above five books are also bound in cloth, at $1.00 each. 

The Adopted Heir. One volume, paper, $1.50; or in cloth, $1 75 

The Earl’s Secret. One volume, paper, $1.50; or in cloth, 1 75 

T. S. ARTHUE’S HOUSEHOLD NOVELS. 


The Lost Bride, 50 

The Two Brides, 50 

Love in a Cottage, 50 

Love in High Life, 50 

Year after Marriage, 50 

The Lady at Home, 50 

Cecelia Howard, 50 

Orphan Children, 50 

Debtor’s Daughter, 50 


The Divorced Wife, 50 

Mary Moreton, 50 

Pride and Prudence, 50 

Agnes; or, the Possessed, 50 

Lucy Sandford, 50 

The Banker’s Wife, 50 

The Two Merchants, 50 

Trial and Triumph, 50 

The Iron Rule, 50 


Insubordination; or, the Shoemaker's Daughters, 50 

The Latimer Family; or, The Bottle and the Pledge. Illustrated 50 

Six Nights with the Washingtonians ; and other Temperance Tales. 

By T. S. Arthur. With original Illustrations, by George Cruik- 
shank. One largo octavo volume, bound in beveled boards, $3.50 ; 
red roan, full gilt back, $4.50; or full Turkey morocco, full gilt,... 6 00 
Lizzy Glenn ; or, the Trials of a Seamstress. Cloth $1.75 ; or paper, 1 50 


MRS. GREY’S CELEBRATED NOVELS. 


Cousin Harry, $1 50 [ The Little Beauty, $1 50 

The above are each in paper cover, or in cloth, price $1.75 each. 


A Marriage in High Life, 


50 

The Baronet’s Daughters, 

.. 50 


50 

Young Prima Donna, 

50 

Old Dower House, 


50 

Hyacinthe, 

.. 25 



50 

Alice Seymour, 

.. 25 



50 

Mary Seahara, 

75 

The Little Wife, 


50 

Passion and Principle, 

.. 75 

Lena Cameron, 


50 

The Flirt, 

.. 75 

Sybil Lennard 


50 

Good Society, 

.. 75 

Manoeuvring Mother 


50 

Lion-Hearted, 


G. P. R. 

JAMES’S BEST BOOKS. 


Lord Montague’s Page. 

Paper 

cover, $1.50, or in cloth, 

..$1 75 

The Cavalier. By the author of 

“Lord Montague's Page,” cloth,.. 

.. 1 00 

The Man in Black, 


75 

Arrah Neil, 

.. 75 

Mary of Burgundy, 


75 

Eva St. Clair, 

► * 

50 


Above Books will be sent, postage paid, on receipt of Retail Price, 
by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Henry Greville’s Greatest Novel. 


PIlETTy LITTLE COUNTESS IIU. 

A EUSSIAN STOKT. 

BY HBlffRY GRBYlLiLi:. 

AUTHOR OF “DOSIA,” “MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER,” “SAVELl’S EXPIATION,” 
“SONIA,” “A FRIEND,” AND “ GABRIELLE.” 

TEANSLATED EKOM THE PEEHOH BY MAEY NEAL SHEEWOOD. 
Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 

“Pretty Little Countess Zina” is a careful study of the Countess Xoumias* 
sine, who, in the most unconscious manner, continues to make all about her very 
wretched by her arbitrary rule and love of power. Zina, the daughter, and youthful 
Countess, bears a certain resemblance to Dosia — that bewitching creature — in her 
dainty wilfulness, while the ward and cousin, Vassalissa, is a new creation. Mrs. Slier- 
wood has the talent, most rare in a translator, of placing herself fully e7i I'apport with 
the authors with whom she deals. It is therefore unnecessary to say that her part of 
this most charming tale is thoroughly well done, while the publishers deserve immense 
credit for their exertions in making the American public familiar with the best French 
literature, and we wish them all possible success in their enterprise. — Critic 

HENRY GREVILLE’S GREAT WORKS. 

PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA. By Henry Griville, author of “Dosia,” 
“Saveli's Expiation,” and “ Gabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

DOSIA. By Henry Greville, author of “ Saveli's Expiation,” “ Marrying Off a 
Daughter,” “ Sonia,” and “Gabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. By Henry GrretnY^e, author of “ Dosia,” “ Save- 
li's Expiation,” “ Sonia,” and “ Gabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

SAVELI'S EXPIATION. By Henry Gr'eville. A dramatic and powerful novel of 
Russian life, and a pure, pathetic love story. Price 50 cts. in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

SONIA. A Russian Story. Ry Henry Gr^ville, author of “ Saveli's Expiation,” 
“ Dosia,” and “ Marrying Off a Daughter.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

A FRIEND; or, L’AMIE. By Henry Greville, author of “Saveli's Expiation” 
'* Dosia,” and “ Marrying Off a Daughter.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

GABRIELLE; or, THE HOUSE OF MAUREZE. By Henry GrH'illc^ author of 
“ Dosia,” “ A Friend,” “ Saveli’s Expiation.” Price 50 cts. in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

The above Books are printed on tinted paper, and are issued in uniform style 
with ^^Theo,” Kathleen , “Jfiss Crespigny,’^ “J. Quiet Life,'' “Lindsay's Luck,” and 
“Pretty Polly Pemberton,” by Mrs. Burnett, and are for sale by all Booksellers, or 
copies will be sent to any one, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers, 

72 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


PETERSONS’ 'STERLING SERIES' 

OF NEW AND GOOD BOOKS. 

Are the Cheapest Novels in the World. 

Price 75 Cents Each in Paper, or $1.00 Each in Cloth. 


“PETERSONS’ STERLING SERIES OF NEW AND GOOD 

BOOKS” are all issued unabridged and entire, in unif. rin stylo, and are printed from 
large type, in octavo form, price tieventy-five cents each in paper cover, with the edge* 
fut open all around; or One Dollar each, l)Ound in mori cco cloth, black and gold, and 
is the most popular series of Books ever printed. The follow ing works have already 
be«n issued in this seiies, and a new one will follow every two weeks in the same style, 
same size, and at the same low price 

SALATHIEL; THE WANDERING JEW. By Rev. George Croly. 
AURORA FLOYD. A Love Story. By Miss Braddon. 
MARRYING FOR MONEY. A Love Story in Real Life. 
THACKERAY’S IRISH SKETCH BOOK. With 38 Illustrations. 
EDINA. A Love Story. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 

CORINNE; OR, ITALY. By Madame De Stael. 

CYRILLA. A Love Story. By author of “ The Initials.” 
FLIRTATIONS IN AMERICA; or, HIGH LIFE IN NEW YORK. 
THE COQUETTE. A Tale of Love and Pride. 

CHARLES O’MALLEY, The Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 
THE FLIRT. By author of “ The Gambler’s Wife.” 

THE DEAD SECRET. By Wilkie Collins. 

THE WIFE’S TRIALS. By Miss Pardoe. 

THE MAN WITH FIVE WIVES. By Alexander Dumas. 

HARRY LORREQUER. By Charles Lever. 

PICKWICK ABROAD. Illustrated. By G. W. M. Reynolds. 
FIRST AND TRUE LOVE. By George Sand. 

THE MYSTERY. A Love Story. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 

THE STEWARD. By author of “Valentine Vox.” 

BASIL; or, THE CROSSED PATH. By Wilkie Collins. 
POPPING THE QUESTION. By author of “The Jilt.” 

THE JEALOUS WIFE. By Miss Julia Pardoe. 

SYLVESTER SOUND. By author of “Valentine Vox.” 

THE CONFESSIONS OF A PRETTY WOMAN. 

' THE RIVAL BEAUTIES. By Miss Pardoe. 

WHITEFRIARS; Or, The Days of Charles the Second. 
WEBSTER AND HAYNE’S SPEECHES. Unabridged. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies will be sent to 
any one, to any place, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

*0 306 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa. 


Father Tom and the Pope 

OR, 

A NiaHT AT THE VATICAN. 


With Illustrative Engravings of the scenes that took place 
there, between the Pope and the Priest, Father Tom. 


Read what S. Prime, Esq., the Editor of the New TorJc Christian Observer, aaya 
of **Fath&r Tom and the Popef* in that paper, editorially. 

“FATHER TOM AND THE POPE— There is a time to laugh. And we 
had it when we read this book, with the taking title of ‘Father Tom and the 
Pope.’ It is a broad satire on the faith and practice of Mother Rome : too broad 
perhaps for this country, where the Irish brogue, Irish humor, and Irish technical 
terms are not as readily caught as they are in the green isle for which the book was 
written. 

“Father Tom goes to Rome; he is a Romish Priest from Ireland, and in Rome, 
his Holiness invites the celebrated champion of the Church to take ‘ pot look wid 
him.’ At the table the Pope offers him various kinds of wine, but Father Tom, 
more accustomed to something stronger and warmer, complains of the drink, and 
greatly to the disgust of the Pope produces a bottle of the ‘ rale stuff’ from his coat 
pocket. His Holiness rebukes him for bringing his own liquor when coming to 
dine with the prince of princes, but catching a whiff of the whiskey across the 
table, asks for the bottle, brings it to his blessed nose, and exclaims, ‘Holy Virgin I 
but it has the divine smell I’ 

“After this the Pope and Father Tom have a good time generally ; the Priest 
produces another bottle from another pocket ; calls for the housekeeper to bring the 
‘matarials’ to brew a punch ; she comes ; a comely damsel ; and then occurs a scene 
that introduces as keen a satire on one of the dogmas of Rome as was ever made, 
for the particulars of which we advise all persons to buy and read the book.” 

Price 50 Cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in Morocco cloth, black and gold. 

“Father Tom and the Pope” will be found for sale by all Booksellers, and on 
all Rail-Road Ti'ains, or copies of it will be sent to any one, to any place, at once, post- 
paid, on remitting the price of the edition unshed, in a letter, to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


PETERSONS’ “DOLLAR SERIES” 

OF aOOD NOVELS, ARE THE BEST, LARGEST, 
AND CHEAPEST BOOKS IN THE WORLD. 

Price One Dollar Each, in Cloth, Black and GolcU 
A WOMAN’S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN. By Miss Mulock. 
THE LOVER’S TRIALS. By Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 

THE PRIDE OF LIFE, A Love Story. By Lady Jane Scott, 

THE BEAUTIFUL WIDOW. By Mrs. Percy B, Shelley. 

CORA BELMONT ; or, The Sincere Lover. 

TWO WAYS TO MATRIMONY ; or, Is It Love, or. False Pride? 
LOST SIR MASSINGBERD. James Payn’s Best Book. 

THE OLYFFARDS OF OLYFFE. By James Payn. 

MY SON’S WIFE. By the Author of “Caste.” 

THE RIVAL BELLES; or, Life in Washington. By J. B. Jones. 
THE REFUGEE. By the author of “Omoo,” “Typee,” etc. 

OUT OF THE DEPTHS. The Story of a Woman’s Life. 

THE MATCHMAKER. A Society Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. 
AUNT PATTY’S SCRAP BAG. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 
THE STORY OF “ELIZABETH.” By Miss Thackeray. 
FLIRTATIONS IN FASHIONABLE LIFE. By Catharine Sinclair. 
THE HEIRESS IN THE FAMILY. By Mrs. Mackenzie Daniels. 
LOVE AND DUTY. A Love Story. By Mrs. Hubback. 

THE COQUETTE ; or, The Life and Letters of Eliza Wharton. 
SELF-LOVE. A Book for Young Ladies and for Women. 

THE DEVOTED BRIDE. By St. George Tucker, of Virginia. 

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. By WilUam North. 

THE RECTOR’S WIFE ; or, The Valley of a Hundred Fires. 

THE QUEEN’S FAVORITE; or. The Price of a Crown. 

COUNTRY QUARTERS. By the Countess of Blessington. 

THE CAVALIER. A Novel. By G. P. R. James. 

SARATOGA ! AND THE FAMOUS SPRINGS. A Love Story. 
COLLEY CIBBER’S LIFE OF EDWIN FORREST, with Portrait. 
WOMAN’S WRONG. A Book for Women. By Mrs. Eiloart. 
HAREM LIFE IN EGYPT AND CONSTANTINOPLE. 

THE OLD PATROON ; or. The Great Van Broek Property. 

THE MAODERMOTS OF BALLYCLORAN. By Anthony Trollope. 
A LONELY LIFE. TREASON AT HOME. PANOLA! 

^^For sale by all Booksellers and Neros Agents, and published by 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia. 


BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 


AN ENTIRE NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 

Describing the Life of Woman in Five Pictures, from Original 
Drawings, by Edward L. Henry. 



full gilt .id., full g.-,tudgj;, fui, g,ft &d^^:?cdVo"^r^irireTDo^^^^^^ 


Above Book n for gale by all Booksellers, or copiss win be sent to any 
one, to anyplace, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa, 


Mrs. Southworth’s Works. 

EACH IS IN ONE liARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME, MOROCCO CLOTH, GILT BACK, PRICE $1.76 EACH. 
All or any will be sent free of postage, everywhere, to all. on receipt of remittances. 


(SHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “Self-Made; or, Out of Depths/ 
SELF-RAISED; or. From the Depths. The Sequel to “ Ishmael.” 

THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, the Fall of the House of Flint. 

THE “MOTHER-IN-LAW;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 

VICTOR’S TRIUMPH, The Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend,” 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 

THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 

FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN-HATER. 

HOW HE WON HER. The Sequel to “Fair Play.” 

THE CHANGED BRIDES ; or. Winning Her Way. 

THE BRIDE’S FATE. The Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. The Sequel to “ Cruel as the Grave.” 

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST ; or. The Crime and the Curse. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers. 

A NOBLE LORD. The Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 

THE MAIDEN WIDOW. The Sequel to “The Family Doom.” 

THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or. The Bride of an Evening. 

THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEAUTIES ; or, SHANNONDALE. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or. The Children of the Isle. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 

THE TWO SISTERS ; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 

THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 

INDIA; OP, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. 

THE WIDOW’S SON; op, LEFT ALONE. 

THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 

ALLWCRTH ABBEY ; op, EUDORA. 

THE BRIDAL EVE ; op, ROSE ELMER. 

VIVIA; OP, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. 


BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. 


THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 

THE WIFE’S VICTORY. 
THE SPECTRE LOVER. 

THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
THE FATAL SECRET. 

LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
THE LOST HEIRESS. 

THE DESERTED WIFE. RETRIBUTION 


Mrs. Southworth^ s works will be found for sale by all Booksellers. 

Copies of any one, or more of Mrs. South worth* s works, will be sent to any 
place, at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


MRS. BURNETT’S CHARMING STORIES. 

FOB SALE HY ALL BOOKSELLERS, ANU PUBLISHED BY 

T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. 

BEING REPRINTED FROM «« PETERSON’S MAGAZINE,” FOR WHICH 
THET WERE AEE ORIGINAEEY WRITTEN. 


The following Charming Stories were all written by Mrs. Frances 
Hodgson Burnett, and each one is printed on tinted paper, the whole being 
issued in uniform shape and style, in square 12mo. form, being seven of 
the best, most interesting, and choicest love stories ever written. 


“THEO.” A Love Story. By 3Irs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, 
author of “ Kathleen,” Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “ Miss 
Crespigny,” ‘‘A Quiet Life,” and “ Lindsay’s Luck.” 

KATHLEEN. A I;Ove Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Bur- 
nett, author of “ Theo,” “ Miss Crespigny,” “Jarl’s Daughter,” 
“A Quiet Life,” and “ Pretty Polly Pemberton.” 

A QUIET LIFE; and THE TIDE ON THE MOANING 
BAR. By Mrs. F'ances Hodgson Burnett, author of “ Theo.” 

MISS CRESPIGNY. A Powerful Love Story. By Mrs. Frances 
Hodgson Burnett, author of “ Theo,” “ Kathleen,” etc. 

PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON. A Charming Love Story. 
By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of “ Kathleen.” 

Above are 50 Cents each in paper cover, or $1.00 each in cloth, black and gold. 

JARL’S DAUGHTER; and OTHER STORIES. By Mrs. 

Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of “ Theo,” “ Kathleen,” etc. 

LINDSAY’S LUCK. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson 
Burnett, author of “ Theo,” “ Kathleen,” “A Quiet Life,” etc. 

Above are each in one volume, paper cover, price 25 Cents each. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or 
copies of any one or all of them, will be sent to any place, at once, per 
mail, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa, 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ GREAT WORKS. 

All or any will be sent free of postage, everywhere, to all, on receipt of remittances. 

Xhe Count of Monte-Cristo. With elegant illustrations, and portraits of Edmond Dantes, 
Mercedes, and Fernand. Price $1,50 in paper cover ; or $1.75 in cloth. 

Edmond I>a.ntes. A Sequel to the “Count of Monte-Cristo.” In one large octavo volume. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition, bound in cloth,. for $1.76. 

The Countess of Monte-Cristo. With a portrait of the “Countess of Monte-Cristo ” on 
the cover. One large octavo volume, paper cover, price $1,00; or bound in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Three Guardsmen; or. The Three Moiisquetaires. In one large octavo 
volume. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition in cloth, for $1.75. 

Twenty Years After. A Sequel to the “Three Guardsmen.” In one large octavo volume. 
Price 75 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition, in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Brag’elonne; the Son of Athos. Being the continuation of “ Twenty Tears After.” In 
one large octavo volume. Price 76 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Iron Mask. Being the continuation of the “Three Guardsmen,” “Twenty Years After,” 
and “ Bragelonne.” In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00 ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

liOUise Ea Yalliere; or, the Second Series of the “Iron Mask,” and end of “The Three 
Guardsmen ” series. In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00 ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Memoirs of a Physician; or. The Secret History of the Courtof Louis the Fifteenth. 
Beautifully Illustrated. In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The i^ueen’s Xecklace; or, The “Second Series of the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one 
large octavo volume. Paper cover, price $1.00 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Six Years Eater; or. Taking of the Bastile. Being the “Third Series of the Memoirs of a 
Physician.” In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Countess of Charny; or. The Fall of the French Monarchy. Being the “Fourth Series of 
the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one large octavo volume. Paper cover, $1.00; or In cloth, for $1.75. 

Andree de Taverney. Being the “ Fifth Series of the Memoirs of a Physician.” In one 
Javge octavo volume. Paper cover, price $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Chevalier; or, the “Sixth Series and final conclusion of the Memoirs of a Physician 
Series.” In one large octavo volume. Price $1.00' in paper cover ; or $1.75 in cloth. 

Joseph Balsamo. Dumas’ greatest work, from which the play of “Joseph Balsamo” was 
dramatized, by his son, Alexander Dumas, Jr. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or $1.50 in cloth. 

The Conscript; or. The Mays of the First Napoleon. An Historical Novel. In 
©ne large duodecimo volume. Price $1.50 in paper cover; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Camille; or. The Fate of a Coquette. (“ La Dame aux Camelias.”) This is the only 
true and complete translation of “ Camille,” and it is from this translation that the Play of “ Camille,” 
and the Opera of “ La Traviata ” was adapted to the Stage. Paper cover, price $1.60 ; or in cloth, $1.75, 

Eove and Eiberty; or, A Man of the People. (Bene Besson.) A Thrilling Story 
of the French Revolution of 1792-93. In one large duodecimo volume, paper cover, $1 .50 ; cloth, $1.75. 

The Adventures of a Marquis. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Forty-Five Guardsmen. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Miana of Meridor. Paper cover, $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Iron Hand. Price $1.00 in paper cover, or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Isabel of Bavaria, Q,neen of France. In one large octavo volume. Pidce 75 cents. 

Annette; or. The Eady of the Pearls. A Companion to “Camille.” Price 75 cents. 

The Fallen Ans'el. A Story of Love and Life in Paris. One large volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Mohicans of Paris. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Horrors of Paris. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Man with Five Wives. In one largo octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Sketches in France. In one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Felina de Fhambure; or. The Female Fiend. Price 75 cents. 

The Twin Eieutenants; or, The Soldier’s Bride. Price 75 cents. 

Madame de Fhamblay. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Black Tnlip. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The C’orsican Brothers. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

Georg-e; or. The Planter of the Isle of France. Price 50 cents. 

The Fount of Moret. In one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Marriage Verdict. In one large octavo volume. Price 60 cents. 

Buried Alive. In one large octavo volume. Price 25 cents. 

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies of any 
one or more, will be sent to any one, post-paid, on remitting price to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS’ WORKS. 

NEW AND BEAUTIFUL EDITIONS, JUST READY. 

Each Work is complete and unabridged, in one large volume. 

All or any will be sent free of postage, ererywhere, to all, on receipt of remittances. 

Hysterics of tlie Court of LiOndon ; being THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OK 
GEORGE THE THIRD, with the Life and YYW-x o/" /.//c PRINCE OF WALES, GEORGE 

THE FOURTH. Complete in one large volume, Round in cloth, price §l.7o ; or in paper cover, price^l.Oo. 

Hose Foster ; or, the “ Second Series of the Mysteries of the Court of London.” Complete in one 
large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.50. 

Caroline of HruiiHwick; or, the “Third Series of the Mysteries of the Court of London.” 
Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, j rice $1.00. 

Venctia Trelawney ; being the *• Fourth Series < r final conclusion of the Mysteries of the Court 
of London.” Complete in one large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $l.(Hi. 

IjOrcl Saxoiidale; or. The Court of Queen Victoria. Complete in one large volume, bound in 
cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Fount C'hristoval. The “Sequel to Lord Saxondale.” Complete in one largo volume, bound 
in cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

ItOKa fiambert; or. The Memoirs of an Unfortunate Woman. Complete in one largo volume, 
bound in cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

Joseph Wilinot; or. The Memoirs of a Man Servant. Complete in one large volume, bound in 
cloth, price $1.75; or in pai)er cover, price $1.00. 

The Banker’s Ban;:; liter. A Sequel to “Joseph Wilmot.” Complete in one large volume, 
bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.0o. 

The Rye-House Plot; or, Ruth, the Conspirator’s Daughter. Complete in one large volume, 
bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in paper cover, price $1.00. 

The Necromancer. Being the Mystei-ies of the Court of Henry the Eighth. Complete in 
one large volume, bound in cloth, price $1.75; or in i)aper co\er, price $1.0U. 

Mary Price; or. The Adventures of a Servant Maid. One voL, cloih, price $1 .75 ; or in paper, $1 00. 

Fustace t^uentin. A “Sequel to Mary Brice. ’ One vol., cloth, price $1.75; or in paper, $!.(«'. 

The Mysteries of the Fourt of Naples. Brice $1.00 in paper cover; or$1.75 in cloth. 

Ifeuneth. A Romance of the Highlands. One vol., cloth, price $1.75 ; or in paper cover, $1.(0. 

Wallace: the Hero of Scotland. Illustrated v.ith 38 plates. Paper, $1.00; cloth, $1.75. 

The Gipsy Fhicf. Beautifully Illustrated. Brice $1.00 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

Robert Bruce; the Hero Hills' of Scotland. Illustrated. Paper, $1.00; cloth. $1.75. 

The Opera Bancor; or. The Mysteries of London Life. Price 76 cents. 

Isabella 'Vincent; or. The Two Orphans. One large octavo volume. Price 75 certs. 

Vivian Bertram ; or, A Wife’s Honor. A Sequel to “Isabella Vincent.” Price 75 cents. 

The Fonntess of Fascelles. The Continuation to “Vivian Bertram.” Price 75 cents. 

Buke of Marchmont. Being the Conclusion of “ The Countess of Lascelles.” Price 75 centa 

The Fhild of Waterloo; or, The Horrors of the Battle Field. Price 75 cents. 

Pickwick Abroad. A Companion to the “ Pickwick Papers,” by “ Boz.” Price 75 cents. 

The Fountess and the Pagre. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. Comjilete in one large octavo volume. Price 76 cents. 

The Soldier’s Wife. Illustrated. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

May Middleton ; or. The History of a Fortune. In one large octavo volume. Price 76 en nts. 

The Foves of the Harem. One large octavo volume. Price 76 cents. 

Fllen Percy; or. The Memoirs of an Actress. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Biscarded Queen. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cenis. 

Agriies Evelyn ; or. Beauty and Pleasure. One large octavo v< lume. Price 75 cents. 

The Massacre of Glencoe. One large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Parricide; or. Youth’s Career in Crime. Beautifully Illustrated. Price 75 cents. 

Fiprina; or. The Secrets of a Pielure Gallery. One volume. Price 60 cents. 

The Ruined Gamester. With Illustrations. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

Fife in Paris. Handsomely illustrated. One large ochivo volume. 1 rice 60 cents. 

Flifford and the Actress. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

£dg;ar Montrose. One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

above works will be found for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
Copies of any one, or more, or all of Reynolds'' works, will be sent to any place, 
at once, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETKKSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 




BOOKS 


The following New Books are printed on tinted paper, and are issued in uniform 
style, in square l27no.form. Priee Fifty Cents each in Paper Cover, or One Dollar each 
in Jiforocco Cloth, Black and Gold^ Ihey are the most charming Novels ever printed. 


KATHLEEN. A Love Story. By 3Irs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of 
“ Theo,” “ Miss Crespigny,” and “ Pretty Polly Pemberton,” etc. 

“ THEO.” A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of " Kath- 
leeu,” “ Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “ Miss Crespigny,” “A Quiet Life,” etc. 

FHETTY POLLY PEMBEETON. A Powerful Love Story. By Mi's, Frances Hodg- 
son Burnett, author of “ Theo,” “ Kathleen,” and “ Miss Crespigny.” 

MISS CRESPIGNY. A Charming Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Bur- 
nett, author of “ Theo,” “ Kathleen,” “ Jarl’s Daughter,” and “ A Quiet Life.” 

A QUIET LIFE. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of “ Theo,” “ Kath- 
leen,” “ Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “ Miss Crespigny,” “ JarTs Daughter,” etc. 

A FRIEND; or, L’AMI. L/enr?/ author of “ Sonia,” “ Saveli’s Expia- 
tion,” and “ Marrying Off a Daugiiter.” Translated by Miss Helen Stanley, 

SONIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Marrying Off a 
Daughter,” “ Saveli's Expiation,” “ Gabrielle.” Translated by Mary Meal Sherwood. 

SAVELI’S EXPIATION. By Henry Greville. A dramatic and powerful novel of 
Russian life, and a j)ure, pathetic love story. Translated by Mary Meal Sherwood, 

GABRIELLE; or, THE HOUSE OF MAUREZE. By Henry Griville, author of 
^‘SavMi’s Expiation,” “Dosia,” “Marrying Off a Daughter,” etc. 

A WOMAN’S MISTAKE; or, JACQUES DE TREVANNES. A Charming Love 
Story. Frotn the French of Madame Anglic Dussaud, by Mary Meal Shemvood. 

MADAME POMPADOUR’S GARTER; or, THE DAYS OF MADAME POMPA- 
DOUR. A Romance of the Reign of Louis XV. By Gabrielle De St. Andre. 

THE MATCHMAKER. A Charming Novel. By Beatrice Reynolds. All the 
characters and scenes in it have all the jfreshness of life, and ail the vitality of truth. 

TWO WAYS TO MATRIMONY ; or, IS IT LOVE ? or, FALSE PRIDE. A book 
for Ladies and Gentlemen ; for Parents, and for all those contemplating Matrimony. 

THAT GIRL OF MINE. A Love Story. By the author of That Lover of Mine:* 
It is one of the most brilliant novels of Washington City society ever issued. 

THE BED HILL TRAGEDY. A Novel. By Mrs. Emma D. E. M. Southworth, 
author of “Ishmael,” “Self-Raised,” “The Mother-in-Law,” etc. 

THE AMOURS OF PHILLIPPE A History of “Phillippe’s Love Affairs.” 
By Octave Feuillet, author of “ The Count de C’amors, the Man of the Second Empire.” 

BESSIE’S SIX LOVERS. A Charming Love Story, of the purest and best kind. 

THAT LOVER OF MINE. A Love Story. By author of “TAat Girl of Mine:* 

STORY OF “ ELIZABETH.” By Miss Thackeray, daughter of W. M. Thackeray. 

Above Books are 50 Cents each in Paper Cover, or $1.00 each in Cloth. 

^33** Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and Mews Agents, or copies of an^ 
one or more, will be sent to any place, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



NEW AND POPULAR BOOKS 

BY THE BEST AUTHORS, FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS, AND PUBLISHED BY 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, PHILADELPHIA. 


PHILOMENE’S MAERIAGES. With a Preface by the Author. By Henry Gr^ 
mile, author of “ Dosia.’’ Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, 

PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA. By Henry Gr'eville, author of “ Dosia,” and 
“Saveli’s Expiation.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

JARL’S DAUGHTER; AND OTHER TALES. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, 
author of “ Theo,” “ Kathleen,” and “ Miss Crespiguy.” Paper cover, price 25 cents. 

LINDSAY’S LUCK. A Love Story. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, author of 
“ Theo,” “ Kathleen,” and “Pretty Polly Pemberton,” Paper cover, price 25 cents. 

FATHER TOM AND THE POPE; or, A NIGHT AT THE VATICAN. With Ulus- 
trations of scenes between the Pope and Father Tom. Paper, 50 cents, cloth, $1.00. 

THE COUNT DE CAMORS. The Man of the Second Empire. By Octave Feuillet, 
author of “Amours of Phillippe.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

SYBIL BROTHERTON. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, author of “ Ishmael,” 
“ Self- Raised,” etc. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth, black and gold. 

THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION. A Love Story. By Emile Zola, author of “ H61gne.” 
His Greatest Work. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

THE SWAMP DOCTOR’S ADVENTURES IN THE SOUTH-WEST. With Fourteen 
Illustrations by Parley. Morocco cloth, gilt and black. Price $1.50. 

THE SHADOW OF HAMPTON MEAD. A Charming Story. By Elizabeth Van 
Loon, author of “A Heart Twice Won.” Cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50. 

A HEART TWICE WON; or, SECOND LOVE. By Mrs. Elizabeth Van Loon, 
author of “The Shadow of Hampton Mead.” Cloth, black and gold. Price $1.50. 

HELENE. A Tale of Love, Passion and Remorse. By Emile Zola, author of “ The 
Abb6’s Temptation.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 

MADELEINE. A Charming Love Story. By Jules Sandeau. Crowned by the 
French Academy. Uniform with “ Dosia.” Paper cover. Price 50 cents. 

DOSI A. A Russian Story. By Henry Cr'eville, author of “ Marrying Off a Daughter,” 
“Saveli’s Expiation,” and “ Gabrielle.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1,25 in cloth. 

MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. A Love Story. By Henry Grtville, author of 
“ Dosia,” and “ Saveli’s Expiation.” Price 75 cents in paj)er, or $1.25 in cloth. 

CARMEN. By Prosper Merimee, from which the opera of “ Carmen ” was drama- 
iized. Uniform with “ Kathleen,” etc. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

COLONEL THORPE’S SCENES IN ARKANSAW. With Sixteen Illustrations, 
from Original Designs by Parley. Morocco cloth, gilt and black. Price $1.50. 

FANCHON, THE CRICKET; or, LA PETITE FADETTE. By George Sand. Thit 
is the original loork from ivhich the play of ^B'anchon, the Cricket,’^ as presented on 
the stage, was dramatized. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or a finer edition, in a larger 
duodecimo volume, bound in morocco cloth, black and gold, price $1.50. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies of any 
9ne or more, will be sent to any place, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


©I CO •'^co lOf 


‘'It is worth double its price.”— OWctwa, (Cxtnada), Advertiser. 


«®“ OHIE BEST! "©a 


PETEBSOH’S magazine 

®®*FULL-SIZE PAPER PATTERWS!"^ 

. — ♦ ♦ ■ 

A Supplement %viU be given in every member for 1879, containing a fulLsize pattern sheet for a 
lady'Sy or child’s dress. Every subscHber will receive., during the year, twelve of these patterns, so that these 
atone will be worth more than the subscription price. Great improvements will also be made in other re- 
spects.-^^i^ 


“Peterson’s Magazine” contains, every year, 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12 colored Berlin patterns, 
12 mammotb colored fashion plates, 24 pages of music, and about 900 wood cuts. Its principal embel- 
lishments are 

SUPEBB STEEL ENGRAVINGS ! 

Its immense circulation enables its proprietor to spend more on embellishments, stories, Ac. than 
any other. It gives more for the money, and combines more merits, than any in the world. Its 


Are the best published anywhere. All the most popular writers are employed to write originally for 
Peterson." In 1879, in addition to the usual quantity of short stories, FIVE ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT 
NOVELETTES will be given, by Ann S. Stephens, Frank Lee Benedict, Francos Hodgsou Burnett, 
Jaue G. Austin, and that unrivalled humorist, the author of “ Josiah Allen’s Wife.” 

iftiietn couim pasm!! 

Ahead of nil others. These plates are engraved on steel, twice the usual size, and are unequalled for 
beauty. They will be superbly colored. Also, Household and otlier receipts; articles on “ Wax-Woik 
Flowers,” “ Management of Infants in short ever\ tiling interesting to ladies. 

JV. B. — As the publishers now prepay the postage to all mail subscribers, ^'•Peterson" is che.cpeb than 
sveb; in fact is the cheapest in the world 


e « 

T£RMS (Always in Advance) $2.00 A ITSAR. 


Copies for $3.50 
“ “ ,4.50 

Copies for $6*50 
“ “ 9.00 

Copies for $8.00 
“ 10.50 


r With a copy of the premium picture (24 x 20) “ Christ Blessing 

: Little Children,” a five dollar ennraving, to the person getting up 
the Club. 

( With an extra copy of the Magazine for 1879, as a premium, to 
( the person getting np the Club. 

{ With both nn e.xtra copy of the Magazine for 1879, and the 
premium picture, a five dollar engraving, to the person getting up 
tlie Club. 

Address, post-paid, 

CHARLES J. PETERSON, 

306 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Po 


J8®“Sp6cimeBS sent gratis if written for. 


Henry Greville’s New Works. 


Pliilomene^s Marring^es. From the French of “Z^ Mariages de Philomlne.^ 
By Henry GrCville, author of ‘‘ Dosia,” “ Saveli’s Expiation,” etc. 

The American edition of ** Philom^ne's Markiaoes,” contains a Preface written by 
Henry Greville, addressed to her American Readers, which is not in the French edition. 
Translated in Paris, from Henry Greville' s manuscript, iy Miss Helen istanley. 

Pretty Little Countess Zina. By Henry Greville, author of “Dosia,* 
“ Saveli’s Expiation,” “A Friend,” etc. Translated hy Mary B'fal Sherwood. 

“ Pretty Little Countess Zina” is a careful study. Zina, the youthful Countess, 
bears a certain resemblance to Dosia — that bewitching creature — in her dainty wilfulness, 
while the ward and cousin, Vassalissa, is an entire new creation. 

ItOfeiia. A Russian Story. Complete mi l Unabridged. By Hnry Griville, author 
of ‘Saveli’s Kxpiatiou,” “Marrying Off a Daughter,” “Sonia,” etc. 

“Dosia” has been crowned by the French Academy as the Prire Novel of the j'ear. 
It is a charming story of Russian society, and is crisp, fresh and pure; while its fascina- 
tion is powerful and legitimate. It is written with a rare grace of style, is brilliant, 
pleasing and attractive. “ Dosia ” is an exquisite creation, and is pure and fresh as a rose. 

Marrying: Off a Daugrliter. By Henry Grcn'i/^, author of “ Dosia,” “Saveli’s 
Expiation,” “Gabrielle,” “A Friend,” etc. Translotea by Mary Heal Sherwood. 

“Marrying Off A Daughter” is gay, sparkling, and pervaded by a delicious tone of 
quiet humor, while the individuality of the characters is very maiked. The mother 
travels all over Europe to find a desirable parti for her pretty daughter, who has a toler* 
able dowry, but alas! husband after husband slips through the meshes of the net woven 
by the mother. Suffice it to saj', that the book w ill be read and enjoyed by thousands. 

Above books are 75 Cents each in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

A Friend; or, L'Ami. A Story of Every-Day Life. By Henry GrMlle, AnthoT 
of “ Sonia,” and “ Saveli’s Expiation.” Translated in l*aris by Miss Helen Hanley. 
The story of “A Friend,” is one of everj’-day life in Paris at the present da}', and 
■hows Henry Greville’s great talent and peculiar skill in the analysis of character. She 
draws her characters remarkably well, and this tender and touching picture of French 
home-life will touch many hearts, as it shows how the love of a true and good woman 
will meet with its reward and triumph at the last, in the value of true, enduring love. 

Sonia. A Russian Story. B<i Hnry Grt'ville, author of “Saveli’s Expiation,” 
“ Marrying Off a Daughter,” “ Gabrielle,” etc. Translated by Mary Neal Sherwood. 
“ SoNiv,” is charming and refined, and is a iwwerful, graceful, d* mestic story, display- 
ing the author’s imaginative style and play of fancy, and is charmingly and most beauti- 
fully told — giving one a very distinct idea of every-day home life in Russia. 

Saveli’s Expiation. By Henry Greville. A di-amatic and jiowerful novel, and 
a pure love story. Translated from the French, by Maty Neal Sherwood. 

One of the most dramatic and most powerful novels ever published is “ SAvfLi’s Expi- 
ation,” and although the character on which the plot rests is strongly drawn, it is not 
overdrawn, but is true to the times and situation. Powerful as it is, it is free from 
exaggeration, while a pathetic love story is presented for relief, 

Oabrielle; or. The House of Maiirezc. Translated from the French of 
Henry Greville., the most popular writer in Europe at the present time. 

“Gabrielle; or, The House of MauriSze,” Is a very touching story, most skil- 
fully told, and follows the life of a girl whose title it bears; but if we were to tell 
any more of the plot it would be to tell the story, so we advise all peisons to get the 
book, and read it. 

Four last are 50 Cents each in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth, black and gold. 

Above Books are for sale hy oil Booksellers, or copies will be sent to 
any place, al once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting price to the publisher 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa. 


69 




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